The Vines of Wrath
by AtomicTwilight
Summary: The Lieutenant's goddaughter, what a perfect new toy for the Joker. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, another Joker/OC story. Full summary inside.
1. Ginger

_**Summary**: Ginger, the Godchild of Jim Gordon works temporarily at the Police Station. It's much to her excitement and discomfort when the Joker is arrested, and even more so when he escapes and kidnaps her, in belief that she has some kind of importance. But ironically, she turns out to be more important to him then he would have hoped._

_**Rating**: T, could possible be raised to an M because of gore.  
_

_I own nothing but Ginger and the plot. And I might as well apologize in advance if this chapter is boring. But then again, it's simply the introduction of the character Ginger. This turned out a bit longer then I wanted it to, but that's all I can do, I suppose! So, read, enjoy, and reviews are always appreciated :D_

* * *

"Ginger, are you paying attention?"

Ginger's eyes snapped forward to her Godfather, her chin lifting from her hand. "What? Yes, yes, I was listening," she quickly replied.

Jim Gordon raised a disapproving brow. "Were you listening to me, or were you doodling?"

Ginger leaned back in her chair, shifting her hand to cover the drawings she had done while in a daze. "You can do both, you know."

Gordon chuckled, removing his thick-rimmed glasses and scrubbing the lenses with the fabric of his jacket. "You should be listening."

Ginger lowered her gaze in guilt; it came too easily for her. "Sorry. But Jim, you've given me this lecture a hundred times. I know what I'm doing, you know."

"You say that now. But you won't when a prisoner gets loose and hurts you."

"That won't happen," Ginger brightly reassured him, smiling. "I've done it before."

"I want you to be safe," said Gordon. "It's a dangerous place here, Ginger."

She shrugged. "It's no worse in here then it is out there." Getting to her feet, Ginger exited the room and began to stroll down the hall. Ginger wanted to go to art school, drawing and painting seemed to be the only reasonable option left for her career path. Of course, it was risky to dedicate one's life to nothing but art, yet truthfully, Ginger found very little that she could see herself doing. She had graduated university with great credits, and enough education and options to go to become a mechanic or a nurse, if she really wanted to. She had taken as many courses as she thought necessary in High School, and it seemed to be paying off now. But Ginger couldn't help but feel improvident, all her well-attained intelligence and ability set to be be ignored.

Gordon wasn't too keen on her becoming an artist, either. He felt the same as she; all her effort and intelligence put to waste. Ginger didn't know what she was going to do. She was, however, trying to get into an Art School not far from Gotham. She was anticipating the letter she would receive in a few months, telling her whether she was accepted or not.

Until the arrival of that day, she needed to work. She lived with Gordon and his family, but she was merely a guest, and therefore had decided she would make her own money, even if it was at Gordon's work. Not that she did much, mostly she just did whatever needed to be done—like a janitor. She filed things that no one else had the time for, she mopped the floors, she typed e-mails, she sent letters, stuff along those lines. And sometimes, if she was lucky, she could get to keep surveillance of the prison cells for a while. Not that that was the most exciting job in the world, but Ginger liked the feel of authority and the chance to get a closer look at the Gotham crooks.

Absent-mindedly, Ginger admitted herself to Officer Denning, the police officer on duty of the cell Gordon had given her permission to vigil.

"Gordon said you could?" He asked, his scornful eyes narrowing in distrust.

"Yes, you can go ask him, if you think it's necessary."

He straightened himself pridefully, nodded once with a disapproving grunt, and marched off. A few of the employees couldn't see why anyone would allow Ginger to work at the police station. _Too much of a dangerous job for such a little girl,_ they would often say. It annoyed her to be called a little girl, like some insignificant, useless baby.

Ginger began to indolently pace in front of the rusting bars, the three men inside ignoring her presence. She paid them no particular attention, every now and again she would sneak a sideways glance to check if their distraught, idle positions would change.

Ginger didn't usually worry about the prisoners escaping. For one advantage, she was exceptionally strong and agile for a young woman. Most wouldn't expect it from such a delicate looking lady, and that was mainly the key. They would be taken aback. Not that Ginger often had the chance to defend herself in the station. Maybe once. But in a city like Gotham, one should always be prepared. In this dreadful city, people got mugged and raped on their way from work. It was considered lucky if you were only ridded of your purse out on the streets.

Ginger wanted to leave Gotham. It hadn't been her original home; she and her parents had lived in Chicago for the majority of her life, even after her father died when she was eight. Her mom had resided in the same house until her own brutal death. When Ginger, now an orphan, was sent to live with her Godfather, Jim, she'd had to move a ways to Gotham. It was almost ten years now (including her years at University) that she had been a inmate of the Gordon household, and she was forever grateful. They'd offered her comfort and stability after the loss of her mother, and still today they didn't mind in the least that she ate their food and slept in their sheets. But she vowed, from her own guilt and gratitude, to leave them be when she received the return letter from the Art School. Even if she wasn't accepted.

Muffled chattering and ejaculations brought Ginger back from her thoughts. She stopped her marching and peered over the commotion. She couldn't see anything beyond the heads of the crowd, she only noticed Gordon darting over, familiar concern and apprehension wrinkling his face.

She cast a glance back at the grimy men in the cell, then continued forward. "Jillian? What's happening?"

Jillian, one of the officials, replied excitedly "I'm not sure! I'm trying to see over this damn crowd!"

"Everyone back up!" Came the booming, sharp voice of her Godfather. People were gasping, recoiling at his command. "Back up! Go on as normal!"

Hesitantly, the clusters of workers disembodied themselves from the mob.

"_Keep going_!"

Ginger remained where she was. As people finally began to clear away, she could make out a broad black figure up ahead. It was a man, a long billowing cape trailing after him, and thin cat-like ears on either side of his cowl.

Ginger felt a smile teasing her lips, but it quickly vanished as she spotted something bellow Batman, curled at his feet. It stared drunkenly at Gordon, a monstrous smile creeping in on its deformed red mouth, black eyes locked on him in sick amusement and disfavor. From her distance, it seemed like a skull; cracked white bone, endless sockets, and a booming bloody grin. It was the Joker, Ginger realized with a shudder of horror.

No wonder people had been gasping.

"He refuses to go to Arkham," Batman mumbled to Gordon, just loud enough for Ginger to hear.

The side of the Joker's white cranium was was pressed torpidly to the floor, as if he was trying to eavesdrop on the events in the basement.

"I see that. Okay, I'll get right on it." It was then that Gordon noticed Ginger standing aside, watching inquisitively. "Ginger! Yes… You don't have to, um, stay here. I'll get someone else to keep surveillance."

"Well, I can still keep watch. I mean, it's not—"

"No, no, no, it's alright," he snapped, clearly distressed. It was much to Ginger's impatience that Gordon was cautious of her protection as a mother was to her first toddler. "I will, er, most likely be busy for the rest of the night. Would you mind getting a cab? I'm sorry, I... Just, tell Barbara I might be late tonight."

Batman dipped his head into a friendly nod. Perhaps it was a bit much to say that Ginger and Batman were _friends_, but she figured it was safe to say that they were well-acquainted. He spoke very little, however he treated her like she was an adult, unlike a lot of people she knew, who prejudiced her as nothing but an ignorant child. She appreciated Batman for it. "Evening, Ginger," his voice was deep, and rough like October leaves scraping along concrete.

"Hi, Batman," she replied, smiling lightly. "Is everything okay?"

His half-hidden lips lifted into a crook smile. "As okay as they can be in Gotham." He beckoned a nod a Gordon, and with a single waving flap of his cape, he had turned, disappearing into the exit.

After a staggering moment of watching in admiration the ghost of Batman's presence, Gordon pressed a hand to Ginger's back, steering her away from the criminal. Ginger reluctantly followed his instructs, and seated behind the main desk with Joan, the frumpy secretary, to organize files.

As she began to thumb through papers, Ginger watched through her lashes as the police officers bounded the Joker in shackles, commanding him to stay silent. His crazed giggles echoed through the loft like an alarm clock as their hands traveled along his limbs in search of weapons. The police could hardly even handle him, she thought miserably.

This was the first time she had seen the malicious Joker in person. She was thankful for her lack of experience with him, but nonetheless it brought up a sort of edgy excitement. Having such a villainous maniac in the station would create great unease and caution. She knew he would escape, as he had from Arkham; it was justly expected of him. But knowing of his unreliability, it would be difficult to prepare for what would become of his actions. Perhaps he would cause harm to someone while doing it, leave there remains in his cell for everyone to find, maybe he would depart stealthily and silently. Or maybe he would just blow up the entire building.

She would just have to wait in discomforting tension and see for herself.

* * *

_So, there ya have it. And in case any of you were wondering, but perhaps you weren't, I'm gonna add some more background around the death of Ginger's parents, because it's sort of an important detail in Ginger's past._


	2. First Impression

"You wanted me to come… To clean the filing cabinet."

Gordon scratched his head awkwardly. "Well, yes."

Ginger sighed. Couldn't they have found another person to clean the filing cabinet? Was it necessary to drag her to the Station just to _clean a filing cabinet_? "Okay."

"But you don't have to do all of it. Rebecca said she would help after her shift is over at three. Sorry, Ginger," he added, noting her skeptical expression, "but we're running low on people today."

Ginger agreed. Most people were either out patrolling, or they were keeping watch of the many corridors of prison cells. There were few left in the end to do the trivial chores such as organizing files and etc. It was why Gordon was so lucky to have her around. With slight resistance, but determination, Ginger set to work.

By the time three O'clock rolled by, Gingers fingers were paper-sliced and stiff as if she had Arthritis. It had given her abundant dismay when she discovered that each capacious drawer was crammed with papers and booklets, so much that not even dust grain could slip between anything. She muttered curses as a stack of papers tipped and dispelled themselves all over the floor. Groaning, she bent to collect them, her back aching from being stooped down for so long. She cast another anxious glance at the clock, reading twenty-five after three. Should she go find Rebecca? No. She didn't want to nag her. But she was late… No, Ginger countered herself, Rebecca would come when she was ready. Ginger sighed again, continuing with her work.

Ten minutes stumbled along, and still not a sign of anyone. She was a half hour late. Ginger paused, eyeing the walls in thought. Yes, she decided, she should probably go see what's up. Just to see, just to make sure if she was still planning on coming.

Ginger straightened from her chair, made her way out of the office. Rebecca should have been back by now, or at least checked in. Ginger entered the lobby, but found neither she or Gordon was there. She made her way to the first corridor of prison cells, sauntering down the hall. She found Anthony Elliot, one of the officers, standing straight as a ruler beside the opposite entrance of the hall. She paid no mind to the hoodlums, as usual, as she passed their cells, some of them snickering and eying her snidely.

"Hi, Ginger," he greeted her with a half-hearted smile.

"Hi, Anthony. Have you seen Rebecca around?"

He paused. "…No, I don't think so. Not in the last few hours, at least."

"Oh. Well, have you seen Gordon anywhere?"

"Gordon isn't here; he was called for some emergency. Told Gargone that he'd be back by four."

Ginger heaved a heavy sigh. "Alright. Thanks, Anthony." Gingerly strolling back up the hall, she found herself imagining the worst possible scenarios in which would keep Rebecca from returning. She knew she was overreaction by a heap, but she wasn't exactly what one would call calm. She was genuinely a nervous wreck over the smallest of things, like a pedestrian briefly coming in contact with a parked car and the alarm wailing like an upset baby.

As she plodded along the cold, metal path, she absently glanced to her side. It was met with a giant red grin. Ginger swallowed neurotically at the sight of him; the Joker was slouched on the rusty bench, sporting his obnoxious orange uniform, as he twiddled his thumbs. She'd never seen anyone actually twiddling their thumbs before, she realized. It was only an expression used in literature and such.

It was when an odd sensation washed over her did she realized that she'd been staring intently at his thumbs. It was the odd sensation of knowing you're being watched. Automatically, she rolled her gaze upwards and stared briefly into his eyes.

She suppressed a horrified gasp when she found him staring back. They were terrible; empty pits of demonic madness. Their presence on her sent shivers down her spine, and she forced her eyes away.

"Somethin' troubling you, toots?" The impending voice cracked the unsteady silence before she could take a second step.

Carefully, she glimpsed back at the maniac. "No," she said shortly, crossly, in hopes that her voice didn't crack.

His thumbs had stopped dancing, were now lying limp at his sides. He soberly got to his feet, drawing nearer to her, and unease crept inside her like a spider crawling up the wall. He was so close; he clutched the rusted bars of the cell, and she inched backward. She could feel the sadistic energy spawning from him, like some sort of electric current. The paint on his face was cracked and beginning to fade, and where the different colors converged was terribly smudged, triggering the visual effect of a melting, chinking skull.

"No? Then why, my dear, do you look so baffled? Looking for, not something, but _someone_?" He continued, tilting his white head to the side, his curious gaze so wide and intent it nearly brought Ginger to tears.

"I, uh… Was just looking. For someone."

"Mhm. I see. Perhaps I can help you." His voice was uncannily smooth and edgy. It was higher then she would have expected, almost a Jack Nicholson manner to it.

Ginger shook her head, "no, that's fine."

"Are ya positive? Because, I have seen _puh-lenty_ of people walk by my cell in the last twenty-four hours—"

"Ginger!"

Ginger whirled at the exclamation. It was Gordon; she could vaguely make out his gleaming spectacles and fatherly mustache from his figure at the threshold of the corridor. She sighed inwardly at her relief. "Yeah?"

"There you are. I was looking for you. Yes, Rebecca ran into some trouble, if you were wondering," he said heedlessly, eyeing the Joker with great repulsion.

"Okay," she said, approaching him. "…Does that mean I have to finish cleaning the filing cabinet?" she asked, peering down pathetically at her sore, battered fingers.

Gordon chuckled, "no, I'll find someone else."

* * *

_Well, there is the first encounter of Ginger and the Joker. I'm sorry if the Joker is a little bit OOC, but you know, I'll try my best. The next chapter out will be the Joker's POV.  
So, I hope you liked it, and reviews and critical advice is always appreciated!_


	3. The Raven

_Okay, so this chapter is basically the second chapter in the Joker's point of view, his first impression of Ginger. And as a side note, the Joker is a very intelligent and clever individual, and I couldn't possibly imagine his thoughts. So I'm not even going to attempt to match his cleverness in this story. I'm not going to write from his view a lot, maybe every once in a while, just to get an idea of what is going on inside his head.  
So, enjoy, and please review!

* * *

  
_

Each cell had at least one of them, at least one faulty bar. His dark narrowed eyes studied each bar with sophisticated accuracy, catching each detail; the grime and dust at the foot of it, to the flakes of rust that dared to subside to the ground. The Joker had, of course, contemplated that conceivably he had been placed in one of the few (maybe the only) cell with no false pillars. Only an idiot would have locked him in an average crypt. It would have been a smart move, but he pushed the thought away. It ruined the fun of the assumption, of the process of figuring out which one was a fake. It had been more then simple once, but these days they built those dang artificial bars nearly the exact same size as the normal ones, and therefore was harder to single them out without waltzing right up to them for evincing examinations. Clev-errrr.

Already, after two days of slothing in prison, he was bored out of his skull. But it wasn't as if he was trapped in jail, like most imbecilic culprits. He could simply walk out whenever he pleased, so furtively that he would never be caught until someone noticed his absence, which could take a while, considering his very presence was edgily ignored by everyone; haughtily timid to evade his attention. But at times like these, he took advantage of the hospitality and rested. However, the dungeon beds were nothing of too comfortable, but he needed a _break_ from all the villainery. The last time he recalled having slept over three hours in a night was definitely about two years ago, at least. Villains needed vacations, too. Dawn to nightfall, he was either perpetrating notorious crimes, or preparing for them. On other occasions, he tried to keep himself entertained by doing pointless, violent things. Nothing overly exciting. But he found it near impossible to settle into sleep on his own. If it visited at all, it simply slipped into him unexpectedly. Here, in jail, the boredom was so overpowering that sleep held him steady for a good while.

And it was then that the Joker caught the fragrance of the something bluntly sweet, but sweet enough to contrast the stench of mold and body odor in the cells. He was lifted from his irrelevant reverie, and his senses impulsively sharpened. He shot his gaze upward, and discovered the aroma had wafted from a person. A _girl_ person, he determined with a grin. But he had been too sluggish—all he had distinctly beheld was the billowing flames of red disappearing behind the wall that separated the two cells.

The last girl who'd walked into this hall had nearly choked him with her stupid Vanilla perfume; why did women feel the need to suffocate their bodies with the disgustingly sugary scents of desserts? Pointless, unattractive.

The Joker's keen ears caught the conversing between the girl and the ignorant, pug-faced guard just little ways down. He paid it no attention; instead he inhaled deeply, letting his eyelids drop and his brow to softly knit together. She smelled of raspberries and a light twinge of something floral… He assumed it was lavender. And another ingredient to the fragrance; what was it? He slickened his concentration and took in the scent again. It was on the tip of his tongue… He absently began to putter his thumbs, the circular movements easing the glitches in his intelligence.

And then she came, with the gentle thudding of her girly sneakers against the metal floor. She appeared in sight, her eyes distant as she continued gingerly, as if deep in thought. His eyes locked her in their hold, and the very first thing he noted was her bright hair that dropped to mid-back. The color, not quite of red; he saw the traces of brown strips gleaming in the florescent lights above. Her eyes were wide, blue almonds in contrast with her wintry skin. However, small patches of ashen pink powdered the apples of her cheeks. The recognition came deliberately, the images of a young girl standing in front Gordon and the Batman, watching with prying eyes as Batman had dropped him onto the Station floor. Oh, how she was so _cute_.

Her crystal-blue eyes were fixed dazedly on his twiddling thumbs; she seemed to notice nothing else, as her steps dulled. He was surprised at how much she resembled a child, as she was evidently around eighteen or twenty, at his estimation. But her pallid face bared such innocence, such extensive curiosity, just like a juvenile. The Joker's lips lifted into a wider grin when her eyes finally flew up to meet his.

He saw the fluster in her eyes at the openness of his vigilance, and she hastily cast her gaze aside.

"Somethin' troubling you, toots?" He uttered, hearing the sickly sweet malice in his own voice. It made him smile even more.

She glanced back, the anxiety plain in her eyes. "No." Her voice was steady.

He rose to his feet, made his way over to the caging pillars and ringed his hands around them. She took a small step backwards. "No? Then why," he said, "do you look so baffled?" He loved the word 'baffle'. It was such a fun word, as opposed to 'confuse', or 'puzzle'. Those were such boring words. "Looking for, not something, but _someone_?"

Apprehension was dancing behind the blue of her eyes; however she quickly hid it behind a blank expression as she informed him of her purposes. He desired to laugh at her hesitant stammering, her finger rapidly twitching, in unease he assumed.

"I see. Perhaps I can help you," he said, his tongue darting from between his lips.

"No, that's fine," she muttered, shaking her head.

He continued to speak quite frivolously, when he was cut-off by none other then that little Lieutenant bastard, Jim Gordon. Sort of a funny man, really. Always trying to grab each piece of his world and piece them together like a puzzle, all the while hoping his neat little glasses didn't drop from his nose. As Gordon shot him a glare, the Joker conceived the expression on the Lieutenants face if he were to rip those glasses from his pruning face, and smash them under his boots. What a expression that would be, he thought, an amused expression settled on his face.

He took a second glance back toward the redheaded girl, and noticed the warm gestures and inviting tone Gordon bestowed to her_. I will, er, most likely be busy for the rest of the night. Would you mind getting a cab? I'm sorry, I... Just, tell Barbara I might be late tonight._

_Evening, Ginger._

_Hi, Batman. Is everything okay?_

The images of memory flickered before his eyes like a slideshow.

The Joker's cold lips curled into a nasty beam. Perhaps the girl had more prominence then he'd expected. A loved one of Jim Gordon's, an associate of the Batman's, working at the Police Station, like a cookie bemusedly left on a counter in reach of a child. Simple was it to just latch out and snatch it, however the sugar never tasted as sweet unless it was stolen with _effort_. It was quite pitiful how the people besetting him were so immune to acknowledging his cleverness. How he was absolutely necessitous of a challenge, instead of the dimwitted, apathetic idiots who seemed to strip of themselves and bare all. He felt idle as a quadriplegic. What was the point of anything without a little bit of threat?

But that could change, he mused with an unseen glint of his eye. Maybe he could just sneak Gordon's toy away for himself.


	4. The Key to Gordon's Office

_Hi, guys. So, this is the fourth chapter! I want to thank everyone who reviewed my story, it's a big motivation! I'm not sure this is my best chapter... I guess I wrote it in sort of a rush, so excuse me if there's any grammar errors or such. Enjoy, and please review!!_

* * *

Ginger popped the microwave door open, shoved in her microwavable macaroni and hit start. It had taken her several minutes to debate whether to make fish sticks or macaroni and cheese. Mac and cheese won in the end, seeing as it took much less effort. She really had to stop these late nights, she reminded herself, as she lazily took out a fork from the kitchen drawer. She was still in her rimpled pajama pants, her hair could have easily been mistaken for a crow's nest, her old over-sized soccer T-shirt was stained and semi-tucked into the waist of her pants. She ignored the microwave glaring _12:25_ at her as she plucked her steaming macaroni from it.

She returned to her bundle of blankets in the living room, the TV flashing bright images from The O.C. The house was vacant; Gordon and Barbara were gone to work, the kids still in school. But Ginger liked the solitude; her voice and her distance had no limits. The freedom of being able to sing aloud without damaging someone's ears, of being able to just close your eyes and listen to the silence slithering softly into your ears. The constant nagging and bickering of James Jr. and Babs, while he continuously abducted her diary, would be absent. Barbara wouldn't be shouting from the foot of the stairwell for them to get along.

Right now, however, all she wanted was to be a slob and grouchily watch Summer and Seth (who was hanging upside down, sporting a Spiderman mask) kiss passionately as they reunited. Things like that never actually happened in real life, Ginger thought. When she was a teenager, she always believed that life was going to be like the movies. She used to be a big movie fanatic. She still was, but back then she had more time on her hands, less people and less obstacles to deal with.

She wasn't proud to tell that she used to be (and still kind of was) a recluse. While other girls her age shopped at Bootlegger, searching for the latest revealing tank tops to wear to their next party, Ginger and her friends lounged around in her basement, re-watching The Shining for the ninth time. She seldom went to party's in high school, unless it was a party of someone she knew well. She just hated all the loud music, the jumble of swaying bodies, the _chaos_. She would rather be left alone.

Getting sick of watching the scandals of Newport, and silently cursing the girls on the television for being so smooth and easily-looking, Ginger flicked off the TV. She was becoming eager to change, just so she could say that she had been dressed by one. She disposed of the remains of her brunch, and climbed up the stairs to her bedroom; the guest room. Of course, one wouldn't believe it to be a guest bedroom, Ginger had already supplied it with personal belongings. She hadn't much; a several outfits, a collection of movies and books, a few old CD's, a diary from Middle school, and a foot-long poster of the Beatles above her bed. It was the closest thing to home she'd had since she was twelve.

The phone began to ring just as Ginger had stepped into a pair of fitted jeans. She stumbled into the hall, tripping over the leg of a hamper, and the shrill buzzing abruptly ceased as she brought the phone to her ear. "Hello?"

"Ginger?" It was Gordon.

"Yeah? Hi, Jim. Is everything okay?"

"Oh yes, everything is fine. I just need a favor."

Ginger repressed a sigh. "What kind of favor?" She asked submissively.

"Are you busy?"

"No."

"Alright, I need you to stop by my office, and on the desk there's a copy of a case file. The Higgins case, it shouldn't be hard to find. I need you to drop by the Post Office and send that to Clark. Alright?"

"Okay," she mumbled, trying to grab each of his words and firmly store them in her memory. "When, now?"

"Whenever you're ready. Most preferably before four, though."

She found herself nodding before she realized that Gordon couldn't see her, "Yeah, okay. I can do that."

She was about to shove the phone back into its receiver, when Gordon spoke again. "Ginger? You know I appreciate all of this—all of your work."

She smiled in appreciation. "I know, Jim."

"I just thought you'd like to hear it," he chuckled.

It took her ten minutes longer to brush her hair and teeth, to call a cab and to pull on her sneakers. She had decided she would go now, instead of waiting another hour. She had nothing better to do with her time, anyway. Outside, waiting for the cab to arrive, she discovered how chilly it had become in Gotham, and briskly ambled back into the house, tore a black cotton pullover from the coat rack. When she returned, the cab was there, engine patiently purring.

As she lounged back into the cheap leather of the taxi, watching the blurs of gloomy grey and black race by, she found herself thinking of the number of favors she ended up serving for Gordon's personal purposes. Without her, she could see quite coherently, he would be in poignancy. All the little chores that people took for granted as being trifles would suddenly dart back and bite them in the ass.

But then again, if it wasn't for Gordon, she wouldn't even have this job. Not that it was much of a job, but he _did_ pay her. Nonetheless, she was still thoroughly a pushover in certain circumstances; as she'd said before, guilt plagued her too easily. It was a flaw, she had to be sure. Her mother always used to tell her it was a good thing, when Ginger would frown in empathy at spiders squelching flies in their webs, that it meant she had a conscience.

"Lady?"

"Oh, yes?" she murmured, the cabby's snarling, tobacco-stained voice brought her attention forward.

"We're here," he snapped.

After Ginger had handed him a few bills, she ran along the concrete steps of the Station, the September wind lifting the ends of her fiery hair. She shouldered her way into the building, and was greeted by the wailing of telephones, loud chattering, and the agonized shouts of the criminals from the depth of the landing.

Hurriedly, she made her way up to Gordon's office only to realize, with a twist of annoyance and dissatisfaction, that the door was locked. She jerked the knob several times before accepting defeat. It was hardly a big deal; Robert, the _real_ Janitor, would have the key to his office. He had the key to everything.

Ginger bounded along the hall, sputtering a greeting to the few polite enough to address her. She finally met the old paint-chipped wooden door that she knew thresholded Robert's little office (if it could be called an office), and rapped thrice on the door.

No answer.

"Robert?" She called, her fist clonking against the hard surface. "Are you in there?"

Silence.

Hesitantly, she placed a hand on the silvery doorknob and coiled it. To her surprise, the door rolled open.

"Hello?" She called, shoving the door ajar and slipping inside. "Robert? It's me, Ginger. I need the key to Gordon's office!" The floor was a moldy color of grey, splotches of unknown scarring and cracking it. There were shelves upon shelves that ran along the opposing side of the wall, nesting tools you'd find in a garage; clean-spray, sponges, bottles and continents of substances she couldn't quite identify. It looked as though a Janitor's closet ought to be. There was a mop plunged into a big red bucket full of soapy water, the scent of dirty dish water wafting from it. "Robert?" She called again.

Sighing in resignation, Ginger shoved her hands into her pockets, shifting her weight. She would have to wait for him.

Eying the room, she noticed the absence of personal belongings. There were no award certificates of any sort, no drawer for privacy, not even a single photo grazed the room. Most people at least had a small portrait of their wife or children, a sister or brother, perhaps. But not Robert. Grief sunk in her stomach as the thought crossed her that maybe Robert had no family. It made sense, now that she thought about it. He was always in the station, whenever she was there, at least. Never did he seem to have private affairs, never did he talk about a loved one.

As she mused forlornly of Robert, she became aware that the clear glass bottle on the second shelf was catching the reflection of something. Something in motion. She glimpsed a sliver of red, and for a moment thought it was her own hair, but in automatic reflex and an adrenaline of solicitousness she whirled around.

A feverish hand closed tightly over her mouth, hindering her shriek of terror. She flailed her arms in horrified astonishment, however realized her arms were locked behind her back, a rigid grip nearly congesting her blood circulation. She tried to scream again, but all sound was drowned by the thick, boiling hand invading her face.

"Oh, shh shh shh! Don't cause a fuss now!" She barely heard the low slurring words, as a wave of dizziness swept over her, her knees buckling. "Oh, feelin' a bit queasy , are we?"

She squinted up at the voice, barely able to make sense of her surroundings. She saw a faint blur of colors reminding her of Christmas, and noted two black shark-like eyes ogling down at her.

"If you _coo-operat-uh_, this might be a little easier for ya," the sound bounced against her skull indifferently.

On instinct, Ginger savagely sunk her teeth into the intruding hand, and as the hot weight was immediately removed from her, she broke into a run. The dull entourage was swinging in and out of focus, sweltering disorientation making her head spin. She didn't care to notice the livid swearing of the Christmas Man behind her.

A potent agony suddenly spread through her calf, and she dropped to the floor of the hall, her mouth agape in a silent screech. For some reason, the scene of the corridor seemed to shrink a little bit before it was swallowed by blank darkness.


	5. Crawling

She seemed to travel through the darkness as if it were an empty road, wafting until the black turbid mist seemed to brighten into consciousness like the dawning sun lit beneath heavy clouds. She saw shapes widening and twisting sluggishly on the back of her eyelids, the invisible figments mirroring the last of her dreams. Ginger was becoming aware of the tightening and loosening of her chest as she took each breath, feeling the wisps of air racing against the roof of her mouth and throat. There was a burning soreness that began to set itself deep within her leg, and a throbbing in the back of her skull as though someone had slammed it with a sledgehammer. That blissful moment of oblivion after each awakening had already passed, and she was progressing to the exasperating confusion of her environment.

Slowly, she peeled her eyes open. Her whereabouts were dim, was the first thing she remarked. She found herself facing a cracked, once-white wall, so coated with age and dust that it seemed a light gray. The floor beneath her was an ugly navy-blue carpet, its burly material itchy and unpleasant against the side of her face. A single window just ranged in her vision, pale light from the overcast sky illuminated the room a ghastly white. It held no familiarity.

Groaning, Ginger propped herself up on her elbow, massaging her sore temple with her free hand. Where _was_ she?

"Well, it's about _time_ you woke up, sleepy-head!"

The voice made her jerk backward, causing the boiling pain in the back of her calf to spring to life. "_Jesus!_" She blurted, cradling her leg. The hammering in her head began to pound harshly, stars twinkling across her vision.

"Jesus?" a bland, husky voice chirped in reply. "Oh, sorry, but, ah… He isn't really here at the moment. You can leave him a message." For a moment Ginger saw nothing but a blur, but it hastily cleared; a lanky immense figure stood in the light of a second window at the opposite end of the room, obliging an illusion of a white-glowing figure, like an angel. Ginger felt a flurry of anxiety, fright, pain and agonizing confusion as she stared. Questions died in her throat; who was that man? Where was she? How had she gotten here? What was going on?

She placed a hand to the back of her head, as if she were afraid it would tumble back onto the floor. "What is—?" She broke off, as a sudden image flashed before her eyes; the glint of movement reflected in that small glass bottle. After that, the past events seemed to gush into her head like water; the hand squeezing her mouth shut, the abrupt pain in her leg as she scrambled to escape, the blankness…

Ginger felt tears of briefly obscure emotion spring into her eyes as she glanced up at the man, who had meanwhile drawn closer. He stood just above her now, gawking down at her. The Joker's eyes were more treacherous up close, his grin several times more frightening then before, the very structure of his face seemed to leer cunningly. "You're a really _deep_ sleeper. I've been trying to wake you up for the past five minutes," he said, as his tongue swept over his bottom lip, "and I'd been _con_-templating throwing you against the wall. Good timing for you, eh?"

"Where am I? What's happening?" She fiercely demanded, hoping her voice didn't betray the weak fear she felt.

"I'll tell you, on_ce-uh_ you settle down, little missy. Didn't your mother ever teach you patience?" He let out a shrill giggle as he stooped down and knelt beside her.

Ginger leaned back in discomfort, remarking the short distance between them. His dark alluring eyes were set on hers in a bizarre sort of tolerance and expectation. "Didn't _your_ mother teach you personal boundaries?" She murmured softly, immediately regretting it.

But the Joker didn't seem angry, in fact, he grinned sardonically. "My sweet mother taught me many things. And you wanna know where that got her? _Dead_!" He let out an inhumanly snicker.

"What do you want?" She whispered, feeling the wetness in her eyes, and even still, the horror of her situation hadn't settled yet.

"What do I _want_? Oh, well, Jeez, there's _a lot_ of things I want. I've always wanted one of those little Smart Cars; you know what ones I'm talking about? I've always wanted my very own Bazooka, too. But… I s'pose that could be arranged… What I think you meant was, what do I want with _you_. Am I correct, _Doll Face_?"

Ginger shuddered.

"Why don't you tell me your name? Hm? Jennifer, isn't it?"

She scowled. "Ginger," her voice was barely audible.

"Ginger? As in a _Ginger Snap?_" He cackled. "You're parents didn't name you after their favorite cookie, did they?"

"What do you want from me?" She asked in a snivel, ignoring the rhetorical question. She was used to being called Ginger Snap; it had been a nickname kids had given her through elementary and middle school.

With that, he stretched his lips into a smirk, inclining forward as if he was about to share with her a big secret. "Tell me, who is… _Jim Gordon_ to you?"

Ginger blinked in astonishment. "Jim Gordon? Why?"

His grin lifted unnaturally high, and it was clear to Ginger the annoyance behind it. He swiped his gloved hand to the back of her head, and tugged a mass of hair, sending out a pained whimper. "When I ask you a question, lit-tel one, _you answer it_."

Ginger swallowed thickly. "Jim Gordon i-is my Godfather," she stuttered, her scalp aching from the pressure. She could smell the putrid bloodlike stench producing from his mouth, even more so when he displayed his sets of yellowing teeth. Ginger felt clusters of shivers race down her spine.

"Good, gooood girl," he cooed, releasing her red mane. He leaned further into her, much to her unease. "Now, listen care-_fully_. Jim Gordon, well, we can say… I'm not his _biggest_ fan. And, as a habit of mine, I like to show people that they can't control me. _Right-uh_? No one can control me. Not even the Batman, whom I have noticed is at your attention. Hm? So, let's say… my kidnapping you is just… a little _game_."

Ginger suppressed another whimper. "Ye-your leaning on my leg," she whispered.

"Oh, so I _am_!" He exclaimed in mock surprise. He straightened his back, gazing down at her injured calf. "Oh yes, **that**." He placed his hand around her ankle and unfolded her limb, making the wound quirk in pain, and he pulled the sleeve of her jeans up over her knee.

Ginger saw for the first time the actual damage inflicted on her leg. A splatter of dried blood tarnished the center of her calf, several inches below the curving back of her knee. She saw, in the flaky maroon patch, a thin scabby slice line.

"You know, that wouldn't have happened if you'd had cooperated! Biting my hand here like a mad dog wasn't the _smartest_ move," he giggled, sliding a hand over her knee to shift it slightly, getting a clearer view.

Ginger flinched away at his touch, the light pressure of his hand like a piercing needle, and not because of her injury.

He remarked with an amused glance. "Oh, _right_. You like your, uh, _personal space_." He spread his lips into a monstrous grin. He moved forward, closing the smudge of distance between them, bringing their faces close. "Well-uh, there's prob-uhb-ly something I should tell you; around here, there's no such _thing_ as personal capacity, Doll Face. You might wanna get used to it!"

He leapt to his feet so abruptly that Ginger almost choked on a gasp. The Joker laughed, as he began striding to a door that Ginger hadn't noticed before. It was at the opposite end of the den, beside the second window. He swung it open, and with his back to her, he slurred "I will come back. _Unfort-tunate-aly_, I can't kill you off quite yet. But, in the meantime I have people to boss around and bombs to make."

Too flabbergasted to speak, she watched him with empty eyes as his figure vanished behind the slamming, paint-chipped door. The room seemed much bigger, much more vacant and bare without his violet frame corrupting its walls.

Ginger sat motionless on the ground, benighted of what to think. It was only a few moments after the distant footfalls of the jester faded that the realization began to set in. Panic swelled in her chest as she swiftly crawled across the room, the rough carpet burning her bare knee. She grabbed the doorknob and twisted it, yanked and thrust with any power left in her arms; she had to get out. Failure was not an option, not even a consideration.

The door would not budge.

She pulled herself up, trying to steady herself with the opposing of her wounded calf. She discovered that she could easily limp, and panting wildly with hot tears spilling over her eyes, she hobbled over to the nearby window. Her disappointment and dread pulsed mightily as she unsuccessfully tried to heave the two windows open. Dizzying despair pranced in her being, the terror deciding to overwhelm any conscious thought. Her own perturbed sobs ravaged her ears as she clobbered the windows, in broken hopes that she could smash the murky glass. The flaccid wooden door would twitch in its frame from the pounding, thin tendrils indented into the hard surface from her desperate nails. She kicked with her good leg, beat the wood and clawed it until crimson fluid smeared the stale white paint.

Omitting was not an option. She had to escape.

But it came.

Everything failed, and was lost in sheer pandemonium of the mind.

Ginger held either side of her head as if it was about to explode, sinking down to her knees. The frantic panic had dulled and ceased, but nothing could subside the horror. Goosebumps ran along her pallid flesh as the loneliness crept inside her, the fear a constant companion. Absently she began to perceive the possibilities of her future. Starvation, maybe; a slash of the throat. Perhaps she would be buried with a bloody smile to match the clownlike maniac.

She curled into a ball on the floor, bringing her knees to her face. Her mind had disposed of anything rational; patterns and ugly emotions filled it instead. She lay motionless, except the slight tremble in her icy hands as she tightly hugged her knees. She didn't even notice the throbbing in her leg anymore. Her consciousness was addled and distant, but a single thought raced through it over and over, like a broken record.

What was she going to do?

_What was she going to do_?

* * *

_Right on, so the fifth chapter is published! Just so everyone here knows, this story will probably be really long... Anyway, I wanted to thank the people who take the time to review, because it gives me lots of motivation! It only takes a second to review :D And so, as everyone has noticed (or so I hope), Ginger really enjoys her personal space. Can anyone take a guess as to why? Hm? It probably won't be revealed until a bit later, maybe the eight chapter or something (don't take my word).  
So, I hope you liked it, and please put a smile on my face and review!_


	6. Conversation with Satan

The room contained only two pieces of furnishing. The first was a decayed hefty cabinet, a few of its handles missing, planted in the dark left corner near the door. Nothing but dust grains occupied its drawers. The second was a pillow. Ginger wasn't sure if a pillow was considered furniture, but in this case she decided it was. Though despite it smelled of damp paper, and the little age spots freckling the fabric like an elderly hand, she presently had her face nestled against it. The mild smell filled her nostrils, but she could get used to it, and she preferred it over the sharply bristled carpet.

Ginger wasn't sure how long she had been locked in the room. Had it been two days? Three or four? She wasn't sure, but it felt like she'd been there for weeks. She'd given up a while ago on trying to get out; she had contemplated heaving one of the cabinet drawers at the window to shatter it. However, that idea was immediately dismissed when she actually took a look outside. She was on the third, perhaps fourth level of the seemingly abandoned condominium. If she jumped out, she would surely kill herself. And unfortunately, her selected drawer had had very little affect on the door. It simply would not shift; she assumed the Joker had made sure of that.

Hunger and thirst had entrenched upon her a while ago, and at first she'd panicked. But gingerly, it had eased into her like something that had always been there. Was that a bad sign? It probably was, if she was starting to feel use to being starved. But she had no clue how long it was ago she had been rushing to find Robert, the Janitor, to get the key to her Godfather's office. Who knew a simple errand could've ended like this.

Being forsaken in a brick of cold silence, Ginger had been left with nothing but her own thoughts. Like in prison cells, she thought ironically; deserted in a cramped white room with nothing to stare at but the moldy walls. However she wasn't feeding off her own guilt, not unlike some prisoners. She wondered what she _should_ be thinking about; maybe some clever plan to strategically leap out the window without injuring herself. However, the scarce scheme's she'd brainstormed were abruptly foiled once she reminded herself that she was still in reality's stone grip. Instead of exhausting her brain with useless ideas, she let her thoughts wander. Having so much time to waste, she found herself eliciting old memories she had long forgotten. She remembered the time she'd spilled orange juice all over her Library book, and she'd winded up having to pay twelve dollars for it. She had been in grade ten at the time, and from that her mind drifted to her only boyfriend from the tenth grade, Stephan, and how she'd loved the gleam forever present in his golden hair. He had moved away to Ohio in December of that year. She'd been heartbroken, thought it was a huge glitch in her world. If only something had foreboded her set path, perhaps if she'd had a brief inkling of what was to come, she would have enjoyed the basic high-school drama while she could have.

It was then that Ginger heard the most peculiar sound. A soft thumping, growing louder with each beat. She barely had time to realize with a bloom of hope and relief that it was the thudding of footfalls, when the crooked door was swung open with a smack.

Ginger lifted herself to her knees, eager for something she didn't know; she knew who it would be, she knew nothing good would become of his arrival, but never could one dismiss all hope in such a matter. Her suspicion was declared as his lanky broad build trudged into the room. She was once again startled by his face; so embellished with paint that he resembled a cracking skull. It was something she would probably never get used to.

"_Gooood_ evening, my Lady!" He piped snidely, "have ya missed me?"

Ginger stared at him warily.

"Last two times I came in here, you were snoring sound as a baby, drooling and everything! Sleeping that much is a symptom of depression. You're not depressed, are you, little girl? Is it that darn boy next door? Did he stand you up? Because if he did, I know someone who knows someone who can get someone to beat him up for you."

"There's nothing else to do in here but sleep," she reminded him, ignoring the tactless comment.

The Joker shrugged. "See how many fingers you can chew off without passing out. Play truth or dare with yourself, if you're feelin' lame. That's the problem in society these days; no one has any… _Imagination_. No one can think for themselves anymore, it's like they're all… Simply sheepish robots who can't seem to find their way."

Ginger shivered, not knowing what to say, or if to say anything at all. The Joker's very presence brought such tension and animation, like a heavy cloud overhanging the room; she could almost taste his intensity, feel the flux of eclipsed adrenaline deluging the entire room. It could have been her imagination, desperately feeding on the company after being alone for so long, like the taste of water after hours of dry thirst. But something told her it was just him, and him alone.

"And… I also noticed… _This_," he pushed back the door to reveal the shallow gouges blemishing the surface. "Lovely… Lovely. A splendid piece of artwork. I think you and I might get along."

Ginger was too hesitant to speak; a single mistaken word could lead to a disaster. What _could_ she say in such circumstances?

"Why so serious, _Beautiful_? Oooh, I get it. Are you still a little _mad_ that I kidnapped you? Or… Is it the scars? 'S that it?"

Ginger summoned the little courage she had, shot him a firm look. "No."

"No? You're _not_ afraid of the scars?"

"Your scars don't scare me. You'd be scary without them, trust me," she mumbled.

She expelled a gasp when his grotesque visage suddenly loomed forward, few inches from her own face. He was grinning sardonically, his rancid breath enough to make her sick. "Am I? Well, that's nice to hear. Say… Wanna how I get 'em?"

Ginger shifted only slightly, trying to withdraw it from his attention. "No… Not really. You're just gonna lie about it," she interpreted. She abruptly regretted such a statement when she heard the scrape of his scalpel flipping from its shell, and caught the dull gleam of the blade as it suddenly drew to her face.

The Joker giggled like a toddler; worse then nails against a chalkboard. "You've got quite the mouth on you, haven't you? What's your last name, Doll Face?"

Ginger swallowed her apprehension as the knife grazed the apple of her cheek. "McCoy," she croaked.

"… _Ginger McCoy_. Well, Miss McCoy, you must think you're brave to say such things to _me_, huh?"

"… I'm only brave compared to some."

"Well… _Some_ say that… Courage is just a nice way of saying _stupid_. Now, my _dear_, you're not the sharpest knife in the drawer, are you? Hmm? I could take that little spark of bravery and turn it on itself, hmm? See how _brave_ you are when I have a blade peeling off your skin ," he whispered, each word cold as death itself. The silvery blade pressed to her flesh, sliding tamely down her face. It wasn't harsh enough to invite blood, but just so that it left a trail of obtuse stinging. "You don't want that, do ya, Sweet Face?"

Ginger shook her head, keeping her eyes fixed on his collar. She couldn't bring herself to stare into those empty pits of madness, those burning whirlpools of nothingness that were supposed to be eyes. Every time she did, she felt her knees buckle in weakness. She couldn't allow such weakness from such a small act.

"That's right. We don't want anything to happen to that pretty little face of yers, do we, Miss McCoy? Is it Miss McCoy, or Misses McCoy? You're not married are ya?" With a swift movement, he pulled back his blade and replaced it in one of his many pockets, straightened himself. "No. It's illegal to get married before you're 18, innit? Yeah. Don't get married young, it's a big mistake. Trust me. I've asked people.

"How… How long have I been here?" Ginger uttered huskily, after a moment of silence. She normally would have sighed, growled that she was _not_ that young. But she remembered to hold her tongue, if she wanted to keep her unscathed face.

The Joker moistened his lips. "Hmm… Well, I am not a man who likes to… Keep track of time… But you've been here a whole of…Seventy-six hours."

Ginger nodded, indulging the news with very little surprise; three days, as she'd lamely assumed. His reporting it in hours made it sound so much longer. "When are you going to let me go?"

There was an instant of silence before the Joker gave a whoop of hysterical laughter. He doubled over, supporting himself on his knee. He wiped what could have been an imaginary tear from his eye as he refined himself again, his grin still broad and teasing. "When am I—When am I going to _let you go_?"

His amusement to such a simple question made Ginger pulsate with discomfort. What was so funny? She watched him with cautious inquisition as he sluggishly recovered from his fit.

"Sweet-uh heart, who said I was going to let you go? Hm? I don't recall ever giving you such information!" He giggled.

Ginger's eyes widened in horror.

Never going to let her go… She could imagine the police discovering her body months later, rotted in this very room with flakes of spoiled flesh scattered on the carpet like ashes, cockroaches and flies nesting within her insides… She shuddered as the imagine glued to her eyes.

"What… Do you think I'm gonna kill ya? Have no worries, you silly bunny," he cooed, as he arched down to pinch her sore cheek in a grandmotherly fashion. "I won't kill you _juuust_ yet. I mean, what is the fun in _that_? I like to play with my toys before I throw them away," he purred perversely.

"Oh, lovely," she muttered.

The Joker seemed to watch her with a sick, amused fascination, like a child sociopath watching his first gory movie. Ginger averted his gaze, the morbid abashment of his observing her made her cheeks flush pink. She blushed almost incredibly easily when it came to self-consciousness, or even the slightest discomfort. She'd always found it odd that when she was frightened she would drain of color. At least that was less noticeable then lighting like a red Christmas bulb.

"Now, before I run along again, is there anything you need? A Barbie doll, perhaps, to remind you of home? Kids tend to get a little tad… _Home-uh sick_. Lots of people have children in Gotham, don't they? It wouldn't be too much problem," he hid a smirk, eyes widening in delighted expectation.

"If I'm going to be staying here," she continued, once again disdaining his nasty comment, "can I… Um, use the bathroom?" she wondered awkwardly.

The Joker stifled a casual snicker as his eyebrows shot up. "...Ok_aaaay_. I'll see to that… When I get back, of course."

"… When you get _back_? Where are you going?"

He shot her a knowing grin, his eyes glimmering. "Where do ya think I'm going? I haven't blown anything up in like, a week. I'm starting to get the willies."

The idea of him leaving her in isolation again, like a single star in a moonless sky stretching on forever, made her quiver in dread. "When will you be back?" She urged, barely caring how eager and desperate she sounded.

"If you have to …Go _that_ badly, then do it on the floor. Only thing is, I'm _not_ cleaning it up."

"I was only wondering."

"Oh? I'm starting to grow on you, is that it?" He snickered, "never fear, my _dear_. I'm always just around the corner." Without a second glance, the Joker had slicked out of the room, curtly and stealthily as a leaf riding the strong rapids of a river.

The door shuttered in its frame, and he was gone once again, and it felt like every last inch of color and live left with him.

* * *

_Well, there's the sixth. This isn't my best work, in fact, I'm sort of humble about this chapter. I haven't really been in the mood to write in the past while. :( Writer's block. And I thought I apologize in advance if this story is boring. I'm not all too great at writing action, nor do I particularly enjoy writing it. Most of this will just be dialogue, thoughts and um, subtle actions. Well, when we're inside the Joker's head, I'll probably put a little bit of mass destruction in there, but that's about it :D I'm not really sure how I'm going to end this though, so I shouldn't make any promises.  
Also, I was thinking about changing the title of the story. Though 'Poison Apples' has a significance, I'm starting to get sick of it. Yes, no?  
Well, I should probably shut up now. I hope you like it, and don't forget to **review**!!_


	7. The Sweet Escape

_The seventh chapter, woot! Sorry if you were getting impatient for it. Well, this one is a pretty long chapter, almost twice as long as the other ones! Ah well, I think I like this chapter, but I didn't revise it fully before I published it, so sorry if there are any errors. There shouldn't be anything major.  
By the way, want to thank the people who took the time to review! Makes me happy!  
Oh, and I always seem to forget the disclaimers; I do not own the Joker, Batman or Gordon. I simply own Ginger, and the plot.  
AND ALSO (sorry). this chapter has some obscene language in it. So, it the F word offends you, then don't read it.  
Enjoy!_

* * *

She'd repeated trying to open the door, and gave up quicker when it remained rigid. She didn't understand how he'd managed to make it so immobile. How would she get out of here? She had to. Her bladder had been nagging terribly, and each time she took a breath, her droughty throat would crack in affliction. Her empty stomach growled in protest, begging for fuel. She was quite surprised she hadn't wet her pants already; thankfully, it seemed that her strength had remained loyal in her time of need. She'd had brief moments of dreadful panic when she wondered when the Joker would return, if it would be tomorrow, next week, next _month_ perhaps.

She wondered if Gordon was okay, if he'd driven himself into madness with guilt and concern for her. He probably had, Ginger thought miserably. He was admonishing himself for asking her to get those case files, abusing himself, restless and distraught from worrying if she was yet alive, dead, or worse. She could picture his mental state vividly within her mind. All these years, he had warmly ensconced her like a loving father would, and that's what he _was_ to her. A father. Never could he take the place of her biological dad, James McCoy, but he closely ensued. He was never atrabilious, never self-indulged or careless. He was caring and respectful, and he had always taken it upon himself to obtain Ginger's happiness. How venerate and comforting he always was. The idea of her own foolishness causing him cruel pain…

Ginger's glazed eyes flew to the door as the knob suddenly squeaked into a twist, breaking its quiescent. The Joker was back already? No, it couldn't be. Dawn had only merely surpassed him, it couldn't have been more then seven hours ago he'd last been here. What was he doing back so early? She had no complaint of his return, she thought, as her leg fidgeted from resisting the urge to pee. She watched in bewilderment as the door flung open.

And even more to her astoundment, it was not the Joker who drifted into the room, but two men. They both sported ugly clown masks, and Ginger could assume they were his thugs. One was tall and lean, a blenched brown trench-coat framing him. The second was an inch or so shorter, a formal-like black jacket buttoned to his collarbone.

Ginger watched warily as the tall one approached her. "Hey there," he purred, his voice flat and nasal. "How you doin'?"

"Where's the Joker?" She asked, starring at the two with skepticism.

"The Joker had some business to take care of," he rejoindered. "Told us to take you to the bathroom sometime tonight."

Ginger's bladder whined at the mention of a bathroom. She jumped to her feet immediately. "Okay, let's go then."

The second of the men began out the exit, the nasal-voiced one gesturing her to walk ahead of him. She trailed after the droog down the sleazy hallway, the discolored green carpet tattered and dappled with mold and dirt. The walls were veined with deep cracks and stains, some of them she was almost positive were blood. The air was stale and dry, or maybe it was simply the taste of paper she had in her mouth. It could have been both. However, it did feel refreshing to be released from the claustrophobic room; she felt airy and open in the capacious atmosphere.

"So, whatsya name, kid?" The first man asked. He was walking almost beside her now, only proceeding with smaller steps to avoid outdistancing her.

"I don't have a name," she grumpily replied.

"Yes you do," he insisted, snickering nastily. "Why won't you tell me it? _My_ name is Vince."

"Well, _Vince_, I'm not obliged to, there's no need."

There was a pause. "So, a redhead, huh?"

She didn't respond.

"I've heard rumors about them," he murmured lewdly. "I've never been with a redhead, is it true that all of them have fire crotches? Do you wanna show me?"

In a halcyon tone, she said "you're disgusting."

"Here's the bathroom," the shorter goon's voice abruptly hindered their conversation.

"You don't want me to come in with ya, do you? I could give you some help," Vince ogled tawdrily.

"I think I'll be fine," she snapped. Ginger hugged her sides, as if chilly, and before she had completely slid into the room, one of the goons had flung the door shut with a booming clap. Without a hesitation, she leapt to the toilet; she couldn't wait another second. The cracked tiles felt cool and familiar under her bare feet, the stuttering florescent lights pressed on her eyes, but she didn't mind. When she was finished, she flushed the toilet and retreated to the sink. A defaced mirror hung crookedly above it, a light coat of smut trimming the edges. Her stomach lurched in degradation as she studied her appearance; her hair fell past her shoulders in oily threads, her eyes sunken in bruise-like circles, and from what she could see, she looked somewhat thinner then she remembered. Her lips were chapped and looked stiff enough to crack with a single motion. But her reflection brought her great reassurance, it reminded her that she was still alive, that she hadn't been swallowed by some altered universe that rid her of existing.

She washed her hands, and before she went back out, she bowled the cold water from the faucet in her palms and slurped it up, like a vacuum collecting dirt. The relief was amazing; finally, after days of her throat draining of any moisture, it was showered with delightful, cool water. It had never tasted so pure and replenishing. As she swabbed the remaining water from her lips and chin, she shot another glance in the mirror. She knew she needed to get out of here. She always found a way to squeeze out of situations. Always. She could always come up with something, some excuse, some backup, some great plan that would release her of the bounds. But this time she was stuck, like a fly in a spider's web. But now… Now could be her chance.

She stepped out of the bathroom, solaced and satisfied, and found the two men leaned against the wall, waiting. It had seemed they were engaging verbally before she had returned.

"Well, it's about time. What do chicks do in the bathroom for so long, anyway? Shelly spends a fuckin' hour each mornin'," Vince told the shorter thug, "You'd think they were buildin' Rome or somethin'."

This was it, she thought. She had to do it now; there was no other accessible time to attempt fleeing. Her eyes swept across the hall to the stairs, quick as a blink. She took a small step toward the masked pair, sucking in a breath to regain any lingering strength, to calm herself.

"So, sweetheart, if you want some company in there with you, I'd be more then happy to oblige." He said pompously, his eyes running along her body.

"Take off your mask," she heard herself say.

He hesitated a moment, but began to pull the chin white-skinned mask over his head. Vince was good-looking, with noble-sized perverse green eyes and a straight nose. His lips, however, were thin and crooked and his hair appeared lacking a good wash. His stubble was thick and sloppy. "Like whatcha see, do you?" He purred. His hand slid down her waist, found her thigh, and he squeezed it.

Without thinking quite properly, Ginger leaned forward, ascending to her tip-toes to meet his face. She heard him chuckle vulgarly with satisfaction, and it made her sick. She didn't know what she was doing, what her plan was. But she trusted herself, and allowed the action to continue forth. She inclined forward, and before their lips would reach, she chomped down on his mouth with the angry power pulsating in her jaws. Ignoring the metallic taste of blood on her teeth, and the shrieking, she turned to the second goon, who had his arms outstretched reflexively, his hand on the edge of striking at her. Swiftly, she walloped him in the chest, and there was a conciliating _thump_ of his cumbersome body tumbling against the ground.

She scampered down the stairs, feeling the air whip past her like cool belts of ribbon. She had no idea which way to go, where she was, or what she was going to do. Her surroundings were blurred and distant, but she paid no mind. Adrenaline and determination pumped through her veins like blood.

As she randomly raced to the right, into the kitchen, she came across a cluster of goons, and she screeched to an abrupt halt. There were three of them, all laggardly standing around, their heads craned to see the commotion. There was a moment of silence, in which everyone in the room took to register the current situation.

"Who let her out?!" She heard someone bark.

The goon nearest to her rapidly grappled her arm, yanking her forward. "Who the hell do you think you are? Come with me," he growled. Ginger tugged her arm back, and when he brought his arm back to launch a punch, she seized his wrist and twisted it with the strength she had left. "_Jesus Christ!_ You fucking bitch! _You broke my fucking wrist_!" He stepped backward, cradling his injury.

"What the hell, the Joker is gonna kill us if he finds out. Someone get the little brat."

Ginger eyed them all, wondering if she should just make a run for it. The three remaining were confronting her, tense and challenging. One of them made a move aggress, grabbing a rusty steak knife from the counter and striving it at her.

"Now, listen lady," he said, his voice low and goofy-sounding. "We don't want to cause any trouble. You get back upstairs and I won't throw this at you. Okay?"

"If you call that a threat, I'm surprised you're still alive," she retorted.

The blade twinkled as it soared across the room, and Ginger impulsively jolted to the side. The apex of the knife pierced the flesh of her thigh for a sheer second before it rebounded to the floor.

"Nice one, you stupid fuck!" Someone roared.

Another lurched forward, gripping her by the shoulder and neck. The smothering killed most of the sharp pain in her shoulder, and she only concentrated on getting his hand off her neck. She clawed recklessly, hoping her nails would lodged into his wrists and tear them open. But as it floundered, a new idea seemed to pop into her head like a rain drop. With a nimble movement, Ginger slammed her foot mightily between his legs with as much force her frail state could enroll. A scourged grunt, and he was doubled over. She made a move to swipe the knife that had bounced to the floor; she should have taken it the moment it dropped.

She held it up in defense.

"You little bitch! Who the fuck do you think you are?"

"For Christ's sake, just shoot her in the arm or som'thin!"

"Or maybe you could get a real job," said Ginger.

"Shoot the bitch!"

"I don't have my gun."

"_Fuck_." The man snarled, pulling a pistol from his back pocket. He leveled it with Ginger's chest, the trigger cocking in preparation. "Don't move a goddamn muscle."

Ginger froze, but barely long enough before a hand closed over her mouth and pushed her face back, the knife dropping and clattering to the ground again. It was a frenzied blur for a moment; all that was brought to her mingled attention was the exchanging curses and bellows, a brisk gunshot. Her focus swung in and out of clarity, but she did note that the owner of the hand over her mouth was that of Vince's.

His lips were swelled beyond credibility, drooping and splattered in crimson fluid, horrible teeth incisions on his upper and lower lips. His wide eyes were burning with fury. He slurred incoherent words of indignation, the droplets of blood and saliva oozing down and splotching her face. She squirmed in his hold, trying to pry his iron hand off her. She would have added to his collection of bite marks on his hand, but his grip was so secure she couldn't even open her mouth.

She brought her foot up and thrust downward, admitting a low _crunch_ of the bone. As she clambered away, she felt the nagging hands of the droogs trying to snatch her to win favor of their sadistic boss. She resisted them, and went for a steel pan that had been lying imprudently on the nearby counter top. Shouting, "_get the hell away from me_!" she swerved the pan forth, plunking against the temple of a goon.

They were all suspended, all fixed on their own pain. This was her chance, she could get free! She broke into a sprint with mild difficulty, almost tasting the wind and smelling the fresh air just feet away. She could see the door. Was it the exit? She wasn't certain, but even if it wasn't she could probably race to the next door in sight if she hurried. She felt the hope and determination rush through her veins, powering her like gas in a racecar. She ran, and as she gained on the door, she almost smiled in victory…

However, it quickly diminished due to the door's flinging ajar. Before she understood what was happening, she caromed into a stiff, warm object.

On impulse, she attempted to slip around it, but found something restraining her. Toiling to escape it, she barely noticed the Joker gritting his rotten teeth at her. She did, however, cease her thrashing when he gathered a handful of her hair, and yanked her up. She was suspended in the air, like a cat carrying her kitten by the fur on the back of the neck. The pressure burned and stung her scalp.

"_What is this_?" He growled in dominance.

There was a pause, the fearful tension so thick it could be sliced. "She got out, boss," said one of the goons.

"So… I've _seen_. And who's fault is that, now?"

Another pregnant pause.

"No answer? Well, that works perfectly for me. I'd rather kill all of you as opposed to _one_."

"I-it was Sleazy's fault."

There was a loud groan in protest from Vince; his lips came to be so disfigured they wouldn't allow words.

"Ah yes, Sleazy. An explanation for me?" Ginger guessed Vince's nickname was Sleazy.

Vince shook his head. "_Wus Grumpy's falt_," he slurred.

"Grumpy, eh. Where's Grumpy?"

"_P' sters_."

"Care to explain?"

Vince blubbered fruitlessly, his swelling, sagging lips disagreeing with his voice.

"What's the matter? Cat got yer tongue?" He said, referring to his mouth.

He sighed. "_Sheh bit meh, boss_!_ Broke meh fuck'n leg_!_ N' sheh knock'd ou' Grunpey_!"

"Mm. She knocked Grumpy out… Broke your leg… And she bit you… On the lips."

"_Sheh cam onta meh_!"

"It was self-defense," Ginger snarled, most of the acidity in her voice from the continuing ache in her scalp. "It's what us women do when greasy men try to feel us up!"

"Sleazy, I've told you, you idiot. Don't play with my toys."

"_I dint do nothin' to 'er_!"

"Liar."

The Joker giggled. "Okay, I have a solution for this little, ah, problem." His hand reached into his coat, and produced a small, fairly harmless knife. Ginger braced herself the Joker, carrying her along with him, approached Vince's quivering and mutilated form, drawing his knife forward. With a quick whip of his arm, and a moist slithering sound, there was a thin red band ringing the front of his throat. There was an instant when the pain absorbed him, his eyes widening in an agonizing revelation. He sputtered, teeth of blood stretching down his neck, and held his cramped fingers close to his neck, as if there were some invisible brace choking him. His blistering mouth contorted into a desperate grimace, his convulsing body dropped to its knees and tumbled to the floor. A thick pool of maroon began to spread on the wood.

Ginger had clamped her hand over her mouth, turning her face away from him. She shuddered in pure horror as her captivator snickered at the sight. Death hung in the air like storming clouds, draining the room of any heat.

The Joker then turned around, parsed the remaining men in distaste. "Well, there's something you don't see everyday. You've done quite the number on 'em, haven't you?"

Ginger wasn't the type to be proud of causing harm to someone, but as she gazed at the men, one with the nose blood cascading from under his mask, one with a flimsy, lumpy wrist, and another on his knees, still grieving over his sore region, she felt a spark of self-satisfaction. Had _she_ done that?

"Okay, well, me and little Miss Sunshine are gonna go upstairs and have an adult talk. I'll deal with you mental invalids later." Still clutching Ginger by the hair, he began up the steep, whining steps. Ginger groaned, rubbing her tender scalp.

When they came across the limp body of said Grumpy, the Joker hesitated in front of it, and nudged it with the tip of his boot. "Well, what a useless loafer he turned out to be," he muttered, mostly to himself.

They arrived back into the room Ginger had been residing, the Joker dropped her carelessly onto the carpet, and slammed the door closed with ample force, and returned to face her. She removed her attention from the pleasing relief on her head, and fleetingly became aware of a knife flickering in his hand. "What are we gonna do with you?"

She suddenly felt a stinging impact on her back and skull, and dread and alarm made its way inside her as the realization came that she had been slammed into the wall. In a dizzying image, she gawked up at the Joker, his eyes burning with fury. His deft hand was gripping her shoulder, his body pressed to hers. Ginger squirmed in his death hold; his cronies now seemed insignificant and frail as a dying tree branch.

The Joker tittered in sick humor. "That was a _good_ one," he murmured, his voice low with anger.

Ginger tried not to whimper as she felt a cold streak on the side of her throat; he was angling the knife to her. She was completely cornered; his arm rested against the wall beside her face, her shoulder in his firm grasp, his whole build entwined with her own. She couldn't move. This had been a _huge_ mistake.

"Now, what are we going to do with you?" He repeated. He ran the blade up the svelte curve of her throat balefully. "It's really too bad we have to cut you up, eh? You and your pleasant little face, hmm?" His voice was deep and menacing, as opposed to the high slur he normally spoke.

Ginger felt tears of blood escape her neck as he added more pressure to the knife, and she made a noise of disgust and shock as he craned his head downward and spread his sweltering tongue along the trail of crimson. Her skin tingled after it. The popping of his lips told her that he'd enjoyed what he'd tasted.

"You know," he whispered, his mouth on her ear, "you're almost… _Too_ pretty, I think. _ May_-be… What I should do is… Just _cut off_ that pretty face-uh of yours, and hang it on my wall. That way I won't feel too bad about this whole thing. Or even better… Maybe I could send it to that old man of yours… Jim Gordon. Huh? Think he'd like that?"

"No," Ginger tried to say, but it came out more of a squeak.

The Joker shook his head slowly, mocking her apprehension and fear. "You're right. He _wouldn't_, would he? That would only remind him… Of the tragic death… Of his _unfortunate_ godchild. Wouldn't it?"

Ginger felt moisture gathering behind her eyes as she trembled lightly. This was it, she thought absently, she was going to die. The fact made the tears tumble down her cheeks. She felt the cool blade drag along her neck, under the curve of her chin, and then finally to her bottom lip. It pricked in pain as he stabbed it softly.

"But you know… Some say that all beauty should be destroyed. A world without beauty… Is a much simpler place… No more envy, no more puerile attractions defined as love… It was just be the truth of the world remaining. I wonder… What shall I do with you?" He mumbled to himself, as he slid the knife through the opening of her mouth. He was pondering which to do; peel her face off and preserve it, or destroy it with the devil's grin, as his own face had been destroyed.

"No," she whispered again, not knowing what else to say. Begging, blubbering and bargaining would get her nowhere. In fact, it would probably enrage him further.

Apparently deciding, the Joker changed positions of the scalpel and placed it little ways under her chin. He pressed it against her flesh.

"No!" Ginger shrieked, with a burst of hysteria. "No!" She thrashed and twisted under him, whacking her fists on his arms and chest, trying to get him to retreat. She desperately attempted to kick him, but it was no use. His weight almost swallowed her small frame; he barely seemed to flinch at her violent punches. "Get off me!"

The painted man grabbed her jaw and slammed her head into the wall with power, and anguish soared through the back of her scalp.

"You can squirm and squirm all you like against me, Doll Face, but that won't help will it?"

Ginger continued to wiggle insufficiently. A sharp cry erupted from her throat as he jabbed the scalpel underneath the apex of her jawbone. He tugged at the blade, beginning to trace the trim of her jaw. Ginger recklessly tried to stretch her head out of reach, but it was absolutely pointless. The sharp metal came in scraping contact with her bone, and her screams inflicted her own throat. She could feel the warm blood gliding down her neck and chest, down her shirt onto her breasts. Her stomach was lurching unpleasantly, but the acknowledgement was stored away, icing over most rational thought was the pain of his knife. It sprouted through her like an infection.

"Oh, sssshhhhh!" She heard the low grumble of his voice in her ear. He'd suddenly taken the knife away, but the agony was still present and was still bleeding. She stared at him through wet, heavy-lidded eyes, breathing heavily. Her body jerked when his leather-clad finger traced a tendril of crimson against her modestly exposed cleavage. She ground her teeth together, resenting the feel of being touched. She could only be glad that his flesh was disguised with leather. Then, he brought his hand to her face.

To her surprise, and confusion, he slowly drew a trail of blood from the corner of her mouth to her cheek, and continued to the opposite side of her face. It took her a moment to catch up on what he was doing.

He took a step back, and grinned at her withering form. She glared coldly and cautiously at his twisted pleasure. "I'd say now we're even," he said smugly, pocketing his knife. He grabbed her arm and roughly pulled her to him. "That was a warning," he snarled, his coal-like eyes seeping into her blue ones. "Next time you try to get outta here _without_ my permission, I _will _slice off your face. _Understood_, Doll?"

Ginger nodded obsequiously.

"Let's see…" he muttered, tapping his chin dramatically in thought. "To avoid… Future, ah, _situations_ such as these…" He reached down to his waist, and began unbuckling his belt, "I'm afraid there will have to be some retaliation…"

She watched with widened eyes as he continued to strip of his waistband. "What are you doing?"

He yanked the thick black cincture out of the loops in his pants with a whip, stepped closer and dragged her arms together behind her back. Ginger shuddered at his closeness. Had someone been looking in on them from the doorframe, they would have said they were embracing. "I don't think those clever little hands of yours will be adept for a while," he chuckled, as he made the belt coil around her wrists like a ravenous snake. He worked at it until Ginger swore she felt the blood in her arms freeze. "Too tight?" He asked as he pulled back, seeing her vexatious expression. She could hear the mockery in his high twitter.

"Yes."

He smiled. "Ain't no such _thing-uh_. What did you think I was doing, anyway? Taking my pants off?" He harbored a small pat on her head, as if she were dog. "_Sorry_. You're not that lucky."

* * *

_Hehe. What did you think? I liked that last line. And I noticed how abruptly this ended, so I hope you ladies and gents (mostly ladies, I think) don't mind that. I did the whole fiasco with him threatening to cut off her face because I sort of felt the last few chapters didn't really show how dangerous (or sick) he really is, so I wanted something a bit frightening in this one.  
Don't forget to REVIEW!!!_


	8. Nearing Edge

_I am SO SORRY for the delay!! See, what happened was before Christmas break I had a serious case of writer's block, and then when I got my snazz back, the internet mysteriously stopped working! So after about a week, it was working. But then it stopped again. So when we got it fixed, guessed what happened? Microsoft Word wouldn't work. It was like my freakin' computer was trying to stop me from publishing the next chapter. So finally, I got to this. This isn't my best work, and I probably will be updating less frequently these days; I have a lot of school work to do! So, I'll stop rambling now.. Enjoy this chapter.  
_

* * *

It felt as though he were speedily submerging freezing, weightless liquid as he soared through the skies of Gotham, the wind racing past his face stinging like knives upon his exposed flesh. The nights in Gotham were dark and inky, humid with pollution. Not a star interrupted the sheet of endless black, the city lights expelled them completely. Voices, sirens, honking horns and obnoxious music surrounded Batman as he flew, the foibles of his home always protruding more and more each night. But a big part of the substandardness was the lazy, law-breaking citizens. Batman couldn't cleanse city of its flaws, but harboring resistance to the crooks would have to be the first step.

He spotted the rooftop; the Batlight beaming up at him, a small speck of a person waiting for his arrival.

Gordon.

He plummeted downward, graceful and proficient as a black dove. He landed sturdily, but with such elegance one would dare to call it beautiful. But Batman wouldn't call himself beautiful; not in a million years. He always saw himself as a stooped, prowling, ghoulish creature of the night.

Gordon was a slim hunched silhouette against the glaring light, his despair and regret pulling him down like gravity. As Batman motioned forward, the Lieutenant rotated to confront him. His face seemed to sag and wrinkle like he was twenty years older; bruise-like half-moons hung under his heavy-lidded eyes, his stiff lips frozen into a sorrowful grimace. He was the mask of regret.

"News for me?" Batman murmured, allowing the low rasp to overcome his natural verbalization.

"Mob dealers are holding up the Gotham bank." Dead was his voice; not even a crack of his pain inflicted it.

Batman hesitated. "… Anything from the Joker?"

"Not since last time you asked."

There was another pause, in which he debated bringing up the tender subject of the dying man's goddaughter. It had been only five days, but that was enough to confirm that she was in serious danger; lost in the desolated torture which was the Joker himself. Gordon had returned to his office late, around midnight, discovered the case file still perched neatly on his desk, untouched. It was beside it that his eyes wandered, to the small rectangular playing card, a paisley little jester printed on either side. He, Batman, had seen the card himself. Gordon had given it to him that night, in a seizure of pure terror.

_Can't have you hogging all the Gingerbread, can we, Lieutenant?_

"She's alright, Gordon," he said at last, his pitiful attempt at comfort. Normally he wouldn't have bothered with cheering someone up, but examining his associate, perhaps even his friend, he couldn't bear to see him so broken.

The little life still present in his eyes suddenly drained, his head lowering into the touch of the light to accentuate the deepening creases of his face. He looked about eighty. "No she isn't."

"We don't know that. He wants to taunt us. He won't kill her unless he has to, and we won't grant him that."

"He wouldn't hesitate to. You've seen what he's done," his voice breaking on the last word, Bruce could tell he was restraining tears. "And it's all my fault."

"'S not true," he whispered.

"If I hadn't of told her to get the file, she would still be here. I could have gotten it myself, but no. I was too lazy. It was her day off."

"He'd seen her before then. He would have gone after her anyway. There was nothing you, or anyone, could have done to prevent this," he clarified ambivalently. He wasn't certain he could believe his own words, but kept them firm and matter-of-fact for Gordon. He couldn't be positive that the Joker would have captured Ginger regardless to her visit to the police station. In fact, it didn't even seem majorly likely. The Joker was a man of impulse, spur of the moment. Perhaps during his escape he had caught sight of her, decided to have a little of a fun with Gordon's head.

"We can't be sure," said the Lieutenant, mirroring Batman's thoughts.

"No," he agreed. Batman felt an abrupt, raging hatred swelling as he thought of the guffawing Joker. He imagined him with his cruel grin stretched upon his clown-like face, dead bodies environing his feet. Ginger was now in his possession, God knows where, doing God knows what. It as easy to recognize the overpowering love Gordon felt for Ginger; it betrayed in his voice and his eyes; the proud, affection manner in which he spoke of her with, his soft eyes when he addressed her. The Joker must have pinpointed this as soon as he saw them together, seen how Gordon adored his best friend's child as much as his own. And now he wished to manipulate this love, to splinter it as much possible like he did everything else. "But we'll find him."

Gordon nodded, sliding his hands into his pants pockets. Only a fool wouldn't see the anguish behind his glasses. Batman knew what Gordon was thinking; only the worst possible scenarios. Torture was the most likely. He had his doubts to whether the jester had already taken care of her; if he had, he would have made it public, or at least have given the information to Gordon to push him over the steep edge, that seemed to be growing closer and closer. Rape he also dismissed. The Joker may be a lot of things, but he wasn't exactly a rapist, nor a pedophile of any kind (and Batman suspected the Joker had assumed Ginger was young as a teenager). The only circumstance in which he would attempt anything sexual with Ginger would be to taunt Gordon, and seeing as the Joker had been silent for the past few days, Batman guessed nothing had happened yet. At their best hope, the Joker would abandon her in a room somewhere and leave her alone and untouched, expect she would die of starvation or dehydration. But neither he nor Gordon was that ignorant, and perhaps, sadly, ignorance was the exact antidote.

* * *

_This was rather short, but don't worry, the next one will be longer. I wanted to give everyone a little taste of life beyond Joker and Ginger, so here is Battsy's POV, talking to the regretful Gordon. Poor guy. And in case no one caught that, Gordon's best friend was Ginger's father; Benjamin McCoy. I was actually going to call him James, but that was when I realized that Gordon's first name was James.. heh. :) So, I hoped you all like.  
And the more you people **review**, the more I will update! _


	9. Twenty Questions

During the Joker's absence, apprehension had nestled within her once she had registered the purple nuance in her hands. Cold, frightening thoughts had whisked through her head like windshield wipers; back and forth, back and forth, eliminating everything until it was nothing but themselves. Bemusedly, she'd attempted to yank and twist her wrists apart, trying to get them loose of the rigid belt. She couldn't flex the muscles in her hands or in her wrists, so she had impacted her arms in the hopes that perhaps the strength would extend to her dead limbs. She'd done so till the flesh beneath the belt was raw and irate. She'd wondered if her hands would actually fall off. She shuddered at the mental image; her blackly tinted fingers drooping with a frightening lifelessness, the hand carefully dispatching itself from her wrist, and finally dropping down to the navy carpet with a deep _thump_. The idea had brought tears of horror in her eyes, and she'd continued desperately to loosen her wrists. And this time, to her gracious relief, she'd managed to slacken the clasp.

However, despite her newly privileged range of hand space, it was rather difficult to lift herself from the floor, especially when lying down. She struggled to bring herself forward in a sit-up type of fashion, found it failed pathetically, and tried to roll over onto her stomach to steady herself on her knees. After perhaps five minutes of sweat and muscle-strain, she found herself staggering raggedly on her feet.

She then decided to simply press her back to the wall, and skim down whenever she felt tired. It wasn't the most comfortable sleeping position, but it was feasible to sleep pleasantly while sloping on a wall with your arms interlocked behind your back. Possible, but not likely. And she did sleep, however not well, as one would assume. The salty copper piquancy of Vine's blood was still plastered on her bottom lip, and the flavour seemed a constant companion. That and the sticky film of blood that swept along her front were probably the egg of the gruesome images of severed limbs, punctured veins, bathtubs of flesh and blood that deranged her slumber. Though unaware of the victim's face, she could almost feel the saw gnawing through her legs as she watched it from afar. Moths of peculiar colors and patterns fluttered by with a frightening framed speed, their crimson eyes too large for any insect. The sun grimaced horribly at her through a crooked window as she wallowed in a pool of disjoined fraction body pieces. The mental pictures were so vivid, so alive before her senses like fire, that when she awoke, the dream prolonged. The excruciating feeling of her flesh peeling, the gore and guts fresh in her memory's vision, she stared around wildly, searching for the batch of intestines that had been before her eyes just a moment ago.

Ginger expelled a sigh of relief when the dread and confusion evaporated, when she realized it had been simply a dream. As a reassurance to her existing in the Joker's hideout she allowed her unfocused eyes to scan the room. The bland walls, darkened by the night, were soft on her eyes in contrast to the grisly figures. Everything was varying shades of navy and white—except for the Joker, curled in the nearest corner.

"_Aaah!_"

The grinning man slouched four feet away watched her cautiously, though he treated her obnoxious shriek as if a daily endurance. "Hi." He greeted, once she'd quieted down.

"What are you doing here?" She demanded, once her heart settled to a normal speed.

"Why, this is _my_ house." Ginger noticed he had been absently shuffling a deck of playing cards. "_Weell_, not _really_. But I got rid of the couple who lived here."

"No, I meant—"

"You meant why am I in here starring at _you _when I could be… elsewhere?"

Ginger nodded warily, keeping her eyes on his hustling hands as he toyed with the cards.

He chuckled nastily. "Have you _seen_ the dastardly egocentric morons I have to put up with down there? Besides, I haven't had much of a chance to really talk with you, have I? Not just talking, but _really_ gettin' down to the dirt under the nails." His hands stopped. "Do you have dirty finger nails, Miss McCoy? No, wait. Don't answer that. Don't. I'll figure that one out for myself." He grinned in a way she would have called genuine, had it been anyone else. "That was a pretty _sly_ thing you did, beating all my henchmen, huh?"

"Sorry," she muttered, barely audible. She didn't know what else could be said.

"_Don't_ apologize." He giggled like a child. "Got to admit, I'm r_aaa_ther impressed. Sneezy's got a board tied onto his wrist, and poor Mr Bashful has to walk with his legs apart," his leering grin echoed on the back of Ginger's eyes, as the thoughts tormented her; he liked that stuff. He relished the misery of others like it was something from a Monty Python film. "Aah, but worry no more, I'll keep the, ah, horny men at a safe distance next time."

Ginger averted her eyes, and the warmth in her cheeks told her she was blushing.

He noticed. "Perhaps we should have called _you_ Bashful."

Ginger ignored his giggly comment.

"So… How… Do you know…" he took his time, deliberately dragging each word. "… The _Batman_?"

Ginger quelled rolling her eyes. He was trying to grasp advantageous information that could be used against his foes, Batman and Gordon, from a game of twenty questions, assuming she was small-minded enough to trust that it was a simple light-hearted game of entertainment, although it was probably to him. He probably thought she was a teenager, as he had remarked before. "If that's the reason you kidnapped me, then you might as well kill me now," she snapped, "I don't know anything."

The Joker scoffed as he scooted himself closer to her, close enough for his arms to effortlessly reach over and grab her if he'd wanted to. "My dear, dear girl. Of course I have other plans for you then to squeeze out information on that freak. It was just… innocent curiosity. So you've, ah, never met the Batman?" He added sharply.

"I've met him before," she replied, "I just don't _know_ him."

Joker's brows knitted together, and his face contorted into an expression that Ginger couldn't comprehend. "Hmm."

"So, do I get to ask you questions?"

He blinked once at the wall, then returned his focus on her, and a grin spread across his face. "Of _course_. Ask away, Gorgeous."

She recoiled at the name he'd given her. Doll Face she would choose not to mind, but his nicknames were much too affectionate, and it was only deliberate the malevolent mock in his voice. "Are you ever going to let me out of here?"

Joker ran his tongue along the inner fold of his lip, resembling a snake slithering across his gum. "I don't know. I'm more of a, ah, 'go with the _flow_' type of guy."

The only thought that came was the rediscovery that he was a man and not a demon. The fact came as a start to her each time. "What's your real name?"

There was a pause, in which he seemed to be waiting for her to say something more. When she didn't he said "You don't get out much, do ya? I'd thought by now, by how much the camera just _loves_ me, everyone would know my name!"

"No, I mean… What name did your parents give you—?"She prompted.

"Oh, plenty of things. Uh… Shithead, Bastard, Prick, Kid. Hm. I can't seem to remember too well. Guess I'm getting' old!"

She wasn't sure whether to feel sympathy, discomfort, or annoyance. Which would be appropriate? All three, she supposed. She wondered for a brief moment if this reply had brought some kind of depressed, fragile emotions from his childhood, but his voice was mocking and superior, as always. His eyes were still vapid black buttons. Perhaps not. Perhaps nothing could ever touch him.

"Is it my turn?!" He tweeted.

Ginger wondered what kind of questions were running through his head, if they were intimate questions, simple ones, or perhaps aberrant. If he inquired about personal matters, she could lie, but she knew that would never work. Despite being a terrible liar, the Joker would never accept her lies. It was as if he could read one's thoughts like they were printed on their forehead. He would have no trouble detecting a fib within her words. She nibbled at the inside of her lip.

He thought a moment. "If you could… _choose_ one way to _die_… what way would it be?"

Ginger made the mistake of casting a glance at the man beside her. He had gotten there first; his black eyes were already fixated so intensely on hers it made her feel weak. The true horror of the situation sort of stimulated, sparked inside her head, and perhaps for the first time she could see how devastatingly _scary_ he was. He was expressionless, besides the thick grinning scars on either cheek. The Joker was a killer, a manipulator. He was evil. His crimes were so nefarious, she doubted she could imagine them on her own. He could kill her anytime he wanted, torture her. That was his purpose for stealing her, wasn't it? She quickly looked away, feeling a lump rise in her throat from the fear. She reencountered when he had yanked her by the hair, hauled her upstairs and forced a blade into her chin, threatening to cut her face off of her skull. How had she not realized how terrifying he was? "Um, let me think," she whispered, hoping her voice didn't crack. He could probably tell that she was afraid, anyway.

How would she like to die? She'd never carefully considered it. The first answer that came to her was sleeping pills; painless and easy. Pop in one too many pills, and you'd simply slip in your sleep. But she dismissed that option quickly. It would be better to die in an honourable fashion, something noble. Maybe diving in front of a loved one to save them from a bullet. That seemed like a pretty good way to go, but she guessed the Joker intended the question to be more of a physical style of death, not circumstantial. Getting shot didn't seem too bad, it vanished you too quickly to allow any extreme pain. But that was almost a dastardly decision. She knew she didn't want to drown; her own experience when she was nine, at the public swimming pool with her brother. Adam had been tantalizing that she was too afraid to swim in the deep end like he could. Provoked and determined to prove her older sibling wrong, that she could swim just as good as he, she'd moved to the opposite end, away from the guard of her mother, and submerged into the deep blue water. When she had been ready to resurface, she remembered expecting to feel the safe lustrous bottom beneath her feet, only when she'd stretched her feet down, there had been nothing but cold water. It had been be awful; just trying to pull air out of her surroundings, desperate for oxygen, woozy and thrashing in confusion, until her brother had heaved on her arm and yanked her to the security of the surface. Yes, drowning wouldn't be a pleasant path. Electrocuted? Maybe a hairdryer falling into the bathtub. "I don't know," she said finally. "I'd rather die of old age."

Joker thwacked his tongue in disappointment. "That's _boring_. I thought you were a bit more adventurous then that."

"I don't know how to answer that," she said defensively. "I guess I'd like to die in the place of someone I loved. How would _you_ like to die?" She asked her question hastily, before he had the time to scoff at her ideal death.

"That's simple; I would prefer if my dear old bat-friend would do me in."

"But _how_ would you like to be killed, was what I mean."

Joker's grin dropped into a scowl as he waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, doesn't even matter. It'd be awful to get a bullet in the skull, though, eh?"

"Why? Death would be quick; you'd barely feel any pain."

"Why, my darling, would you want to experience death without pain? Being shot is much too brief. You're dead before you even realize what's happening. It's _cheating_."

"If you got shot in the stomach or the arm or something it would be slow," she contradicted.

"Ah, but _that_ is a different case, there." His tongue swept across his bottom lip, leaving a glistening trail. Ginger began to ponder about that. Why did he lick his lips so much? Was it because the face paint irritated the faint tissue of his lips? Perhaps, even, he liked the taste of the crusting makeup. And now that her brain was progressing and roaming, she realized she had many wonderings about the Joker; how old was he? Why did he even _wear_ make up? Where was his family? Where had he come from? They were all mysteries, veiled by the vile amusement of the defiant anarchist. She found herself reaching further, wondering about his descent into madness, perhaps when he was a vulnerable boy. Was he ever so innocent? Had he played with toy cars and G.I. Joes? What about the descent itself? What had caused it? But maybe he had always been that way, born with empty eyes and sadistic natures. No one knew, and she doubted anyone ever would.

* * *

_Hi. Sorry about the delay again, but it'll probably be that way for a while. Stay tuned! And remember, if you review, then the more I will write. I get a lot of favorite stories and favorite authors, and I appreciate it! But it's still nice to hear reviews ;) don't any of ya have any critical remarks to help me with my writing? A suggestion for the plot? Anything? I am open to suggestion!  
_

_I hope you enjoyed the chapter, also. I think I'm getting slow with the Joker's dialog. Maybe I should watch the Dark Knight again. Anyway, I'll have the next one up soon enough. Lots of school work, you know. Until next time!  
_


	10. Bare Feet

_Again, sorry for the delay. But I don't think people are reading this thing anymore, so I'm not that hurried to publish any of it. So, here it is.  
_

* * *

"Why do ya live with Uncle Jim, hmm?" he asked, "What happened to mommy and daddy?"

Ginger ignored the swarm of unease and aches in her stomach and, in a hopeful attempt at distraction or moderation, continued to trace the cracks in the wall with her eyes. "They died."

"ah-oh," his response was equally casual, however, Ginger could sense she'd spiked his interest; his eyes clung back to her like a magnet. Anything concerning the likes of death or pain was his specialty, his _hobby_. She imagined if she were him, lashing out and slitting the throats of chaste humans, the nerve and callousness one would require to act on such horrid things. She imagined seeing the horror and the plead in eyes as she beat them merciless, the purple splotching bruises fading into sight, the trails of blood from the broken skin, the chunks of flesh tumbling out from their sheath… She had to bite the inside of her lip to erase the images, and she suddenly couldn't abide to look at him, knowing he had done such abominable things and laughed, like death was a joke. Which it was, to him. "That's _awful_. How'd that happen?" He asked, the nonchalance in his voice ringing with a sick sanguine.

"A car accident, when I was eight." She watched the wall like it was a movie, only she barely saw it; she was silently wondering if he would pick up her smuggling of accuracy.

A beat of silence. "You're lying to me."

Ginger shifted in discomfort, swearing in her thoughts. "No I'm not. _My dad_ died in a car accident."

"Oh, gee. And, ah, what about mommy?"

Should she lie? No, he could espy a fib in less then a second, and his surly manner would most likely not allow a second chance. However, the more he knew, the easier it would be to raid and infect her head without consequence, like she knew he would try. "She had cancer."

"Mh_mm_…? Is that all? You're not gonna fill me in on the gory _details_?" His voice rang with a hard edge.

"She had a brain tumour, she died when I was seventeen."

"Uh huh." He abruptly shoved his deck of cards into an inside pocket of his bulky jacket and rotated onto his knees to confront her nose to nose. Ginger's eyes widened with a start. She could feel his hot breath throbbing on her lips, and she could barely refrain shrinking as far back onto the wall as she could. He noticed this (of course); his eyes flickered to her legs as they prolonged to slide her back farther. "_Listen-ah_ to me," he hushed. He lifted her chin with his thumb and forefinger, wriggled forward to straddle her lower half, a shockingly small distance between them, and smiled like a lion on the verge of pouncing. She tried to draw her head back to create further distance between their faces, but it did nothing. She hated being so close to him, _hated_ it. The invasion convoked the flashbacking memories of unwelcome skin, dominating and hungry… Just like him. "I don't really _like_ being _lie-ad_ to, okay? If you're a smart little girlie, like I think you are, you'd tell me the truth. Hmm?" He moistened his droughty lips, and she could feel the warmth of his tongue as it passed.

He forced her to look directly at his eyes; it was like looking into the depths of hell. She squeezed her eyes shut, instead. "Okay," she croaked.

"Don't shut those pretty litt'l eyes of yours," he suggested. His body weight shifted, and she could feel the motion on top of her. "So, I'll ask you again, what happened to mommy?"

She refused to permit escaping tears, not now, not in front of him. Was she truly that weak? He had no visibly weapon, his only defence the proximity of their figures, his own reputation and his knowledge of her agitation. That was his greatest asset. Of this, Ginger thought repeatedly of how incredibly _stupid_ and _pathetic_ she was. She had welcomed him inside her head. He was so agile and cunning, his own strength of mind capable of marauding the deep emotions that were so alien, yet so simple to him, and now he had her by the neck and he was gripping. The acknowledgment of her own piteous fragility made crying more tempting, but she abolished it. Not here, not before him where he could crucify her with mockery and humiliation. The painful columns stored deep within the cockles of her mind were being conjured, and its forward path was not a pleasant one. With hesitancy, Ginger began "she… She was—"

Her confession abruptly interrupted was by the sweeping motion of the opening door slapping the wall. "Hey, Joker, it's time—" The goon fell silent, registering the degrading positions of either one, and made a sound of uncomfortable shock. "Am—Am I interrupting?" His large grasshopper-like body noticeably erected, and he took a small step backwards.

The Joker, more then clearly irritated, clenched his jaw and gingerly swivelled his head. "Yes, as a matter of fact, you _were_ interrupting, Giggly. You'd better have a good reason for doing so."

"Yeah, I… Uh…"

"_Spit it out_."

"We gotta go now. It's almost five and—"

"Uh huh. You're absolutely right," Joker leaped to him feet in one nimble movement, making Ginger jump, and he straightened his tie. "Well? _Scram_ and double check everything if you really want to, if you don't have anything better to do then wander around like an imbecile…" He went on, though 'Giggly' had already scrambled away from the glooming cloud of the Joker's fury.

Ginger chewed on the inside of her cheeks, resisting the self-loathe and desire to bawl. She tried not to peer up at him, as she knew his eyes were fixed on her. Whether this was to catch her attention, or intimidate her more intensely, or out of mere curiosity to watch her, she wasn't sure. She kept her eyes on her far wall.

"As for you," he finally voiced, his voice abating to a lower drawl, "I'll be back later. Oh, and one last questions before I leave for my little rendezvous; what is your favourite food?"

Her stomach lurched at the mention of nourishment. "Um, strawberries I guess," she answered reluctantly. She hated how helpless she was before his scheming logic.

"What about… Your _least_ favourite food?"

"I don't know. Uh…" She felt ridiculous answering such trivial questions, and honestly, she could barely even think of any kind of food she would detest at this particular moment. "Black licorice."

Joker's lips stretched outward, not particularly upward, and he nodded as if taking orders. "Well," He sighed, "see you later, Honey Bunch!" He sing-sang, pulled the door closed behind his animated self.

She felt the hot tears slip down her face, and again, she was aware of self-hating waves at her own apathetic nature; to tidy her brain of memories, to freeze them and stack away into a dark corner, bound them to a forlorn isolation where they would struggle to attain freedom. It had been so long ago, and she was childish to have never accepted it, to simply banish them like a feeble test result at school in hopes of never having to look at it again. Immature and stupid, just like her. Once an acknowledgment was publicized, it was sent ablaze like a sand storm. She had made this known to the Joker, and he was fondling it, observing it for a pliable patch and wanting to press it.

She wanted to sleep again, having nothing else to do, but she was opposite of tired. She wanted to get up and walk, to run, to _eat_. God, to eat. And to drink. She could feel her stomach begin to feed off itself in starvation, however, she had learned to avoid the sensation by holding her mind away. She seemed to be good at stuff like that, except when she was confronted. Uhg.

She pushed with her frail legs, and her back slid up the level wall like an elevator. She was conscious of her shoulder blades, hurting from the strain as her arms hung back, embraced at the hands. She moved her leg along before her, trying to extend it, and the tendons tingled from lack of use. Her socks were off, and the carpet was brusque under her dirty toes, and she was briefly reminded of when she was a child, when she used to amble through her backyard without her shoes. Her mom would tell her to wear her sneakers, that she could step on a shard of glass and get an infection. However, Ginger was immune to her scolding. She did it anyway; she relished the grass beneath her feet, the cool soil damp and rough and earthy. She'd detested wearing her shoes in the summer, having those useless strap-on sandals that gave her blisters along the rims of her feet. Even in the house, she seldom wore footwear; not even socks. She liked her skin sticking to the humid wood floor when she walked, the smooth surface and the pieces of dust lingering on the floor that would cling onto her. Mindy, her mother, had been completely different in that manner. Mindy had been a greatly immaculate when she was alive, always trying to organize the details of her somewhat mediocre life. She'd had a list of goals, a list of daily chores, a list of things to buy, a planner for outings, gas-stops, breakfast, lunch and diner. One could speculate this trait with one glance; her short, ivory hair had been cleanly cut behind her ears, awarding her a fresh, tidy look no matter what the circumstance. She'd loved to wear virginal white blouses and ruffled skirts, trim slip-on sandals, and Ginger remembered the cloudy greyish pearls she had been so devoted to. Her husband, James, had given them to her on their three year anniversary. Ginger had them in her room somewhere, in a box full of precious treasures.

Sometimes she wondered to whom she had shared more traits with; Mindy or James. It was a difficult question when she recollected the similarities they all shared. She knew she had the physical appearance of her father, as everyone had always reminded her when she was a kid. "Oh, you're a spitting image of your father!" They would say, "Like a miniature James". She had inherited his wild auburn hair; a mixture of dark red, brown and scarce nuances of violet. She had the baby blue shade of his eyes, only his were never quite as large as hers, and the lips she owned were a mere replica of his. After James had died, nearly eighteen years ago now, Mindy had obviated looking at Ginger for the fear of mistakenly seeing her husband.

She remembered the bleak period following his death, the first grievance ever experienced, despite when her hamster, Marble, had escaped and vanished. Mindy's face had been producing gaunt shadows under the depleted eyes, her lips always cracked, hair always oily and stale like hay. Adam had proved to be equally devastated, most likely more so then Ginger, having understood the veracity of death, being roughly four years older. She would have endured more depth to her agony had she been perhaps a few years older, but her pain had solidified at such a young age of innocent oblivion that she was somewhat glad that she hadn't been able to take the full strength of it. By the time she had reached the stage of maturing, the sorrow had already settled, and couldn't repeat accompanied with the anguish of the comprehension. Of course, like most afflictions, they can ameliorate through the process of time, occasionally with the assistance of a gracious boost, an angelic being that could convoy into a blinding light. A light so bright, that it perhaps could be an illusion.

* * *

_There, a little bit of input on Ginger's past. Like it? Don't like it?  
Leave me a review, then!  
They do me well. Hey, are any of you guys into the Mortal Instruments series? City of Bones, City of Glass..? I just got the third one, and I can't put it down. If you haven't read them you should check it out!  
Anyway, I have the next chapter written, but it depends when I publish that one. If this one gets some attention, I'll continue, but I think I might stop the series._


	11. Invisible Butterfly

She was in a strange place. She resided in a striped corridor, no entrances visible, except one small black door at the far end of the hall. But it was a long distance, she noticed. The hall stretched on for such a radius, the door looked fit for an ant. A hazy recollection was brought to her; she remembered that door, just like she remembered this room. But she simply couldn't recall from where she had seen them.  
She began to stride down the narrow corridor, black and white stripes surrounding her, as if she were inside a zebra. She was sporting a thin multi-colored dress, long and silky, that revealed an impossible amount. It would flicker away for only a moment, revealing her naked body, like a tattered light bulb. She was completely alone in the room, but she felt uncomfortable even with herself, with her bareness. She continued forward despite her shyness.  
She suddenly discovered that she was searching for something. Or maybe she'd known it all along, but was never aware until now. She wasn't sure, nor was she certain of what she was seeking. She must have forgotten.  
She walked on, feeling light like a feather. Her feet were bare; she could feel the cool ceramic tiles beneath them. Her long, burgundy hair bounced on her back as she strode. She liked it.  
"Gordon!" She called, noticing that he had appeared a short distance away. "Gordon! Hi!"

"Ginger." He whispered, coming over and gathering her hands in his. "I've been _so_ worried. We've all been looking for you. Are you alright?" He took no notice to her flashing gown, and Ginger shrugged it off anyway, seeming indifferent to whether he could see.  
"Jim, where are we?"  
He peered up, smiled, warmly, like he always did. "This is our house."  
"What? Why didn't you tell me we moved?"  
"We didn't move. We've been here all along."  
"Oh. Well, I have to go. I'm looking for something." They shared a departing smile, and then she floated away, leaving him waving after her.  
She scratched her head dramatically, puzzled as to where she could find whatever she was searching for. She continued up the hall, lifting the hem of her dress. Her eyes scanned the bare area closely, crouching slightly to inspect every inch of the lined walls and floor. Maybe she was looking for something tiny, like a button.  
She was startled by a man who abruptly appeared beside her. She quickly covered herself with her arms, feeling her face on fire. The slope of his shoulders were rough and broad, his wavy hair tinted green. He had the strangest face painting; he looked like a disgruntled clown. She didn't know who it was, but he eyed her in an odd way. She decided that he was perplexed by her flickering dress. "What do you want?" She asked the strange man.

He grinned, exposing bars of decaying teeth. He whispered, breath deadly and sweet, "the door is an illusion. It's not that far away."  
She shook her head. "It's a long distance away. I'm looking for something in there." She realized the truth of her words as she spoke them, and smiled in self-satisfaction. Of course, she thought, that was where it was! Behind the door! She turned to complete her expedition, having the fresh understanding of where to find her serendipity, however she was delayed by the clown, urgently grappling at her arm.

"What?" She barked, impatient to reach the door.

"What are ya lookin' for, Sweet Cheeks?"

"I'm look—" She stopped. What _was_ she looking for? She hadn't an idea, only that it was behind that door, and she needed to reach it. She hadn't planned on informing the man of this, however, she heard herself say "I don't know."

The man grinned. "That's exactly what I thought. And you're lookin' to find it behind that little door, eh? What you don't know... is that it's not there."

"What do you mean?"

"It's not behind the door."

Ginger couldn't believe him. "Of course it is. Where else would it be?" She shrugged out of his iron grip and continued forward. She quickened her pace to a jog, booting it up the room. She reached the dark door in a matter of seconds. The man had been right, it _was_ closer then she'd imagined, but no surprise or disappointment came. She turned the knob, excitement throbbing inside of her.  
Throwing open the door, her eyes bulging, she set foot inside the room. She was disappointed then when she saw that the room was painted a dull grey color, and nothing grazed the room but a cardboard box. She felt tears of betrayal, frustration, and confusion swell in her eyes.  
What was she going to do? She didn't know where to find it, whatever is was. She knew it was something important, and she knew she wanted it badly. She was a five year old chasing an invisible butterfly, with the world as a map.

She was so cold. Why was it so cold? Returning to her physical body meant returning to the developing burdens. Her legs tingled as if spiders trembled along them, her stomach so empty that there was a giant bolder lodged within, her throat so dry the edges stung and the flakes of her dry lips seemed to crack with each breath. Was she going to die in here? She'd had water only a short while ago. Yesterday, perhaps? Her sense of time seemed to have gone astray. But even still, her throat was rough and droughty like a desert. How long could humans go without water, she wondered? Wasn't it about four days? God, how had she lasted? How could she endure it, _now_, without food or water? She was ravenous. Would she have to resort to cannibalism? The only living thing in her presence was herself; she would have to resort to chomping on her own hand. But oh, wait, there were still the henchmen. Maybe if one came in, she could strangle him to death and then dig in.

Wow, she thought.

That's disgusting.

She finally tore her eyes open with effort. She did nothing only sleep. There was nothing else to do, but stand before the window, observe the beautiful, polluted outdoors of Gotham in desire and dream of a sweet escape. At least slumbering allowed her the pleasure of forgetting where she was, who was with her. It was too bad that sleep was over before she realized it had begun.

She only then realized that she had fallen sideways during her sleep. The bristly carpet was irritating her already dry skin. She rolled onto her back, not caring how she would eventually get to her feet. Maybe she wouldn't have to. Maybe she would just stay there, lying in a useless lump, for the rest of her pathetic life. Her eyes roamed the room out of habit, seeing if there was something that she hadn't noticed before; perhaps another mold spot that she hadn't seen before that she could include when she counted them. She had already counted them six times, and sometimes she found another little splotch that she had been unaware of. At her last count, there were eighteen mold spots on the walls, and then another four on the ceiling.

But something was different about the scene before her eyes, she realized. Within one fourth of a second she discovered what it was. She threw herself upwards, ignoring the deep strain in her spine, and scrambled across the room.

She could barely believe it. Was she hallucinating? That must have been it; she was so hungry, so thirsty that she had imagined the glorious food perched right in front of her. A beautiful, clear bottle of water stood grinning at her, luring her in with gentle words. The water inside was so crystalline, so clean and refreshing looking. Without thinking she snatched it, tore off the cap and allowed the silky heaven-like liquid to rush down her throat, relieving it of its pain. She felt the cool richness flush down her throat and into her stomach. She gulped and gulped, not caring in the least that it was the filtered kind that tasted like chlorine. When there was an inch of water left in the bottle, she licked her lips in pleasure, and started in on the food.

She grabbed the large maroon bag. As she ripped it open, she found it to be full of black licorice. She didn't give a damn. She scooped up a handful and shoveled it into her eager mouth. She had never tasted anything so divine in her entire life. What used to be the unpleasantly bitter, rubbery taste was now delicious and wonderfully sweet, like she'd never tasted before. She was literally nearly exploding of joy; her lips stretched into a grin as she dug in for another handful.

The world had been lifted from her shoulders.

* * *

The heavy liquor deluged down his throat, the tissue burning as it went. Mmm. He loved the sting of alcohol. He usually stopped drinking once he adapted to the harshness and the pain ceased, which would usually prevent him from getting drunk. And he would only get drunk on certain occasions, all depending on his mood. Sometimes he longed for the reeling drowsiness; it was like a rollercoaster ride. Nothing seemed sensible, and yet nothing seemed quite mad either. Sometimes being intoxicated was the best state there is. Other times, he sneered at it, thinking it was simply a method of distraction and mind delay.

Joker was balanced on a chair, hunched over a lopsided table, scribbling down a letter. A letter to his good ol' friend Gordon. He decided that perhaps the old man would want an update on his precious little girl. He tittered quietly as his red pen scratched across the parchment, enjoying even the prediction of his face. Too bad he couldn't be there when he opened it.

_Or can I_?

He, and three of his cronies were in what might have been a kitchen, but it was completely pulverized to the point that the only trace left of a kitchen was the rusty fridge and countertops. A few scattered pans may have been a giveaway.

"_Sleepy_," Joker snapped suddenly.

"Yeah boss?" He replied quickly, out of reflex.

"See that candy over there? Bring it up to the little girl."

He was met with nothing but hesitant silence.

"_What_?" He snapped with annoyance, finally looking up.

One, at least, had the guts to be honest. "She's kinda scary, boss. The redhead."

There was an instant of silence in which confusion, maybe even irritation pulled at his lips. His brow descended a fraction, and waited for someone to yell 'just kiddin' with ya!' But they were silent. They were afraid… of the _girl_. A mild snicker sounded from his chest, and he observed them all with a fresh abasement. Were they that pathetic? The men had the backbone to stick around at his side, clever (if he _did_ say so himself), murdering, psychopath. And yet, that delicate kitten sent chills up their spines.

"Scared she'll claw your fingers?" He scoffed. "Just… Just don't…. _Touch_. Okay? Don't touch her." Only he had the right to touch her. "Now go, before I _los-ah_ my temper."

"Sure thing, boss." The goon, tall and broad, jumped to his feet and was gone within seconds. It amused him how swiftly they would kiss dirt for him, simply out of fright. Fear of nothing but their pathetic lives. Had they no pride?

No, he mentally retorted.

Once you surrendered your soul to the Joker, all dignity was lost. It was the way he liked it; his own dignity and pride was the moon in a starless night. He was dominance, and no one dared hold any light whilst his presence.

The Joker stood, pocketed his silver flask. He sloppily folded the letter, pinching the edges to keep the paper together. "Have we got any envelops around here?"

"I don't think so." One of the cronies replied.

Joker sighed in disappointment. "I'll have to find some _elsewhere-ah_. I'll be back, boys."

He was still amused and annoyed at their pitiful weakness, and it brought a troubled smile to his lips. Even now, as he departed from the old apartment, crossing the dismal street, the stench of pollution filling his senses. But he allowed it to remain behind him, in the house, and to let his mind spread without a glitch of fury. The only noise disrupting the heavy quiet was his solid footfalls, the rims of his shoes scuffing the gravel in low growls. Not even the bits of trash randomly tucked along the sidewalks dared to twitch in his presence. He liked that. The clouds were rolling along overhead, and he could hear nothing but his own life; deep breathing, raspy footsteps, the slithering of his swallow and his tongue across his lip.

Too quiet.

Tranquil; something he did not welcome. The citizens were probably bundled into their beds, on their couches, watching the news to see the daily load of notorious crime. He himself had left the city alone since he had escaped jail, and perhaps now they were awaiting an explosion. Because the Joker was never _gone_, he simply took coffee breaks. Crime needed a vacation, too. Couldn't become predictable, nowcould he? But at the moment, as he continued forward into the twilight, he sensed the stillness. People were heading into their houses, collecting their children out of the danger of the exposure, rushing home from work, driving warily home. They were all on the edge, and the peace was numb and rigid. It could snap at any moment, like an elastic being stretched to its limit.

Maybe he could just catch something on fire. Something small, like a cat or a car. That was enough for him.

* * *

_Hey guys, what's up? So, this is the 11th chapter. That's pretty far down the road, but it's still only the beginning of the story.. Heh. Hopefully I can finish it! I usually don't finish long stories like this, but because I'm putting this on the internet, maybe it'll motivate me because I know people are waiting!  
I don't like how I wrote Joker in this chapter. He seems too.. lame? I feel like I'm losing his character, like I'm not making his dangerous enough... But I liked the beginning, with our little heroin and her food.  
So, the next chapter I will give you more Ginger/Joker interaction. I promise. I already have it written, but I might fix it up a bit.  
Yeah.. that's about it. Oh, and I was thinking, if there are any **artists** reading this, then you are welcome to draw a picture of Ginger or just a drawing representing this story. I know I've tried to draw Ginge, but I can't really draw, especially when I have a specific image for something.. :D_

_So, keep that in mind and draw me a picture! And I don't have to remind you to review. :)_


	12. Duplicitous Propositions

He was standing two feet away, his index finger curled at his lip. His eyes were large and unfocused, staring blindly at the wall. He did nothing but stand. Not blinking, not swallowing, and she could have sworn he wasn't breathing. He was like a statue of Satan, carved out of marble. At first, she had watched him curiously, cautiously, but after a few minutes she had given up her search as to what exactly it was he was doing. She didn't speak in the fear of waking him from his trance and infuriating him.

And finally, what felt like hours later, he twitched, like a paused movie flickering back into motion. His hand dropped from his face, and he took a step forward, his deadly eyes dropping to hers. He said nothing, just smirked like he was the power behind all evil forces. He stooped down, moving his arms around her and touched her wrists. The alarm, that was forever a light haze under everything, rose and convulsed until she felt a sudden relief around her hands, and realized with a jolt of shock and gratitude that he was removing the belt.

He leaned back, straightening the band from its crinkled, winding form. He watched her with enjoyment as she observed her hands, red traces of the stiff material imprinted upon her flesh. She ran her fingers over it, savoring the sensation of freedom. It was like when your hair was pinned back into a sharp, nagging ponytail and then, finally, at the end of the day, you pulled the elastic bound from it. Such a lovely, aching relief that simply made you want to close your eyes in bliss.

She almost smiled, and she could have had he not been there. He probably wouldn't have liked seeing her smile, anyway.

"That was my good deed of the month," he muttered with a snicker. His voice, whether high or lower, was always tainted with a particular rasp, like dead leaves sweeping over asphalt. She suspected it from the constant yelling or laughing. It could have been that he smoked too much, but the image of the Joker striding into a corner store and purchasing a pack of cigarettes didn't seem to fit. "You know, I must say. I'm impressed."

"By what?" She asked, unsure if he was sarcastic or not.

He grinned down at her. "You're, ah, _survival_. Most people I kidnap, they tend to lose their head after a few days in the house of Joker. Figuratively _and_ literally."

She swallowed, averted her eyes from the intensity of his gaze. Just a single glance made her feel like he was stripping away her flesh.

"So, Doll Face. I've been meaning to ask you a little something."

She glanced up at him; his face was creased with a mischievous beam, one she didn't like in the least. "What?" She croaked, feeling about as small as an ant.

"Have you ever…" he paused, eyes narrowing in what seemed to be curiosity. Although, she had the feeling he did it only to create suspense. "…Held… a gun?"

"No. Why?"

"You, ah, _look_ like someone who would know how to use a gun."

"Well, I don't," she said firmly.

"What a shame. Such… _promising_ skills put to waste." He dropped a black-crusted eye into a horrible, knowing wink, and Ginger thought back to the reasoning behind Gordon's disproval of her desire to be an artist. "But… we can fix that, can't we? How would you like to _learn_?"

She frowned. "What?"

"It won't be hard. I mean, you've already managed to protect yourself nicely with nothing but your own mouth. A gun will be a piece of cake!"

"You're going to teach me how to fire a gun?" She demanded in bewilderment.

He licked his lips, resembling a conniving snake, and bared his rotting teeth. For an instant—and Ginger couldn't be sure if she imagine it or not—she caught a glimpse of youth in his face, like he was a teenager up to no good just for the hell of it. She found herself wondering again how old he was. It was almost impossible to tell with the makeup embellishing his face; it accentuated every crinkle and crease of his skin. The only clue to his age would have been his eyes—but they were nothing but empty caverns. They betrayed nothing but the monstrosity slumbering deep within its tunnels. "I think that everyone should get the chance to hold a gun at least _once_ in their life. Think of it this way," he said, seeing her skeptism. "If there ever comes the time, you'll be able to kill me with it."

* * *

_Next chapter will be longer, I promise. This chapter was actually about 3000 words, but I divided it. So, yeah, I hope you liked it. I'll be away for May 24 weekend. So, when I get back home on Sunday, I might post the next chapter! It all depends on you guys. Anyway, I shouldn't even be on the computer right now because I had to go pack. So, have a nice weekend guys!  
_

_Don't forget to review :)  
_


	13. Practice

She had never held a gun before. Some may have found that strange, seeing as she worked at a police station, even kept watch over the mild criminals. But she had never clasped a gun with a finger curled around the trigger, with the intention of pulling it. It felt strangely heavy and out of place in her hand, like it didn't belong. The entire situation felt strange and misplaced, in fact; she was standing beside the Joker, a gun in hand, while he leered in cruel satisfaction at what he'd created so far. She didn't know why he had prompted her to learn to use a gun, but she knew the motives were far from good.

Before they had begun, she had demanded water. Strangely, he had accepted this with enthusiasm, and had steered her down the stairs. She'd been wary to drink the tall glass of water he'd offered her, but she'd decided that if he had, in fact, poisoned it, it wouldn't really make a difference. She was most likely going to face death in the next few days, and if it were to come soon, she'd rather be satisfied as opposed to dehydrated. Now, he stood little ways behind her, watching her movements with a critical eye. There was a giant X in the center of the wall parallel to her, produced by a red sharpie Joker had found lying around. "Let's test your eye, _shall_ we? Aim the gun at the center of the X."

She did as she was told, although she couldn't interpret if it was level with the center. She would have to see the results to find out.

"And shoot."

"Just shoot?"

"Well, I don't remember having to do any kind of ritual or prayer beforehand. But, if you want to say the Our Father, then go right ahead." He snorted. "Only thing," he continued, "to remember is not to… _pull_ the trigger. _Squa-weeze_ it. And keep both of those blue peepers open."

She quickly set her eyes back open, startled that he'd noticed that she'd closed one of her eyes.

"Shoot."

She obeyed, squeezing the trigger instead of pulling it down. Her eyes popped shut and she shuddered violently as a loud _bang_ exploded over her eardrums. But it wasn't just her ears; she felt the blow in her face, her legs, her arms. When she opened her eyes again, she saw that her aim was pretty awful; the bullet was lodged within the left leg of the X.

"Hm. Needs some work," he muttered. "And by the way, what _are_ you, _a wire_?"

She narrowed her eyes at him in confusion. "Excuse me?"

"You're the stiffest person I've _ever_ met."

"Well being held captive in a rotting old house isn't exactly relaxing," she retorted, unable to control her irate defensiveness.

Joker chuckled darkly, accepting that. "There are _two ways_ to do this. You gonna relax, or will I have to make your body limp for ya?"

Eyes enlarged, she released the tension in her shoulders and allowed them to droop slightly.

He rolled his eyes. "Where'd you grow up, the military?" He growled, but then smiled at the irony of his comment. "Apparently not," he added as an afterthought. "Try again. Hold it firmly, relax your little shoulders and keep your legs apart."

She followed each step, making sure her body was at ease, and that there was no space between her fingers and the gun. He had checked her grip on the pistol, and had said nothing about it. She's assumed her hold was acceptable. She raised her arms only slightly, hoping the bullet would fly higher then last time. She squeezed the trigger, and again was alarmed by the loud popping in her ears; it felt like someone was jamming hot, pointed bars into her eardrums. She opened her eyes. There was a hole in between the two right limbs.

Joker sighed noticeably in irritation, and stepped in front of her, his eyes even blacker then before. "I don't think you understand—you need to _ree-lax_," he said patronizingly, drawing out the last two syllables as if she were a child.

"I am relaxed."

He raised an eyebrow, looked down at her questioningly. His face then twisted into a humorless, sneering grin. "I'd _hate_ to see you tense. Can't you just…" He leaned over her, rolling his eyes upward as if in thought, "close your eyes and take a deep breath or something?"

"Why do you even want me to do this?" She snapped, crossing her arms under her chest.

"You'd do well with a gun, I think. You walk into a room, people look at you and see a harmless little girl. Don't they?" He folded his hands together behind his back, and continued to circle her slowly. "But you're not harmless. In fact, I bet if you wanted to, you could pull together an entire massacre and get away with it. Because look at you; small, angelic, quiet. _Delicate_. You could get away with murder. And no one would suspect you because they're all blind to you. Men wouldn't look at you in any other way but sexually. Imagine the look on their faces… when they realize their mistake. That they were deceived. You, my dear, could take over the world because of that little advantage."

His voice had closed into a whisper, husky and velvety in her ears. As his voice melted away into the silence, there was nothing but his light footsteps as he came round again. She saw his great, looming figure protrude from her line of sight, and she glanced up at him. His eyes were thoughtful, still almost unbearable to hold for too long, and amused. Wasn't he always amused about something? "Let me get this straight," she started, quietly because it almost felt like a crime to break the stillness in the room. "You want to teach me how to fire a gun because it'll surprise everyone if I use it?"

"Something along those lines."

"I would never use a gun."

"Why not?" He asked softly. His questions never sounded like questions; his voice never pitched higher at the right moments. It was all statements and commands.

"Because I would never do anything like that."

"Wouldn't you?" His voice was knowing, but as she opened her mouth to protest, he continued; "You've hurt people before. You've broken their legs, slammed things over their heads. Why would shooting be different? It's just pulling one little trigger."

_Because it is_, she thought, _it's different because I could kill someone. And if I did, I wouldn't have anyone to blame._

"Are you relaxed yet?"

"Why would that make me relaxed?" She barked. The image of her killing someone wasn't exactly one to cradle her into calmness.

"The, ah, soothing sound of my lovely voice. Now, stop with the useless questions and just _chill out_."

Ginger set her eyes to the floor, pondering what made her relaxed. Was there anything? He was gaping expectantly, and she turned her head away from the strangling pressure of his eyes. She hated massages; people squeezing and scrubbing various parts of her body. The very thought made her shudder. Walking didn't usually relax her either, because she never took the time to actually simmer down. She was always alert while walking because she was afraid she would get lost. Of course, she did know her way about the city, it was simply that if she were to fall into a frequent daze, she would wake without being aware of how she'd arrived to her surroundings. And she was always mindful of the traffic in Gotham, and of course, all the people. To be relaxed, Ginger had to be alone. She hated being in the public eye, even if she were walking and a stranger would pass by, her muscles would tense unexplainably.

She looked up at the Joker with innocent eyes. "The outside makes me relax."

He grinned. "Nice try, Beautiful. Maybe something more, ah… plausible."

"Showers make me relaxed."

"Anything else?"

She thought another moment, gnawing at her lip. "Do you have a piano?"

His brows shot up, and a grin unfolded on his face. "We _do_! Although it might be polite to mention that it is severely out of tune. And you know, it'll take too much time to go playing that piano. Because, quite frankly, our time is _up_."

He snatched the gun from her hands and replaced it in the depths of his jacket. She wondered how many pockets he had; he seemed to carry around the contents of a small house in those pockets.

His spidery fingers slid around her neck, clutched a swab of hair at the scalp. She tried not to whimper as he yanked; she could feel a hairs breaking from her skin, and her head stung all over in sharp little splotches. "If I hear tell of you trying to get outta here again, you're pretty little head is going to be rolling around this place, you understand?"

She nodded reluctantly, eyes closed from the pain.

"Good." His fingers left her hair, and she sighed at the waves of aching relief. Of all the torturous things he did, he seemed to like pulling her hair especially.

When she unfurled her eyes again, she found him strolling toward the room's exit.

"Wait," she said, making his head roll back. "I can stay down here?"

"Mhmm. Of course you can." He flashed her a yellow, perilous beam that made her stomach shudder.

But the thought of escaping that horrid, decaying room made her stomach flutter with glee. She already felt a sense of freedom springing from this small privilege, being able to walk around in a wider space, having other walls to stare at beside the chinking, molding ones in her berth. Having a chair to sit at… And perhaps water to find. Or maybe he had hid all of that. She would have time to snoop after he left, see if there was any food or water obscured around here.

She watched his stalky figure move out of the room, around a corner. She hugged her ribs as she listened to his footsteps abate, and the groan of a door being swung open and then replaced.


End file.
